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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT; 



INCLUDING HORACE 



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INCLUDING HORACE 



BY 



LOUIS UNTERMEYER 

Author of " These Times," 
" and Other Poets," etc. 



■ 



NEW YORK 

HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE 

igig 






COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY 
HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, INC. 



22 1919 



THE OUINN a BODEN COMPANY 
RAHWAY N J. 



©CI.A5366G2 



* 
•* 



TO 
H. L. MENCKEN 

MORE IN SORROW THAN IN ANGER 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION xi 

" INTEGER VITJE " 
As it might have been translated by 

ROBERT BRIDGES 3 

ROBERT HERRICK 5 

ROBERT BROWNING 7 

SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE II 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 13 

A. C. SWINBURNE 14 

HEINRICH HEINE 15 

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI AND OSCAR WILDE . 1 6 

EDGAR ALLAN POE 17 

C. S. CALVERLEY 19 

AUSTIN DOBSON 21 

WALT WHITMAN 22 

J. M. SYNGE 24 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 25 

GUY WETMORE CARRYL 27 

W. H. DAVIES 29 

ROBERT FROST 3° 

CARL SANDBURG 3 2 

EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON 34 

AMY LOWELL 3^ 

THE IMAGISTS 3^ 

CONRAD AIKEN AND T. S. ELIOT . . . . 40 

FRANKLIN P. ADAMS 42 

IRVING BERLIN 44 

vii 



PAGE 



49 



vm Contents 

OTHER ODES 
"on with the dance!" 

" tears, idle tears " c 

growing old disgracefully 

B -c 35 52 

A-D. I919 53 

THE TEASING OF XANTHIAS ca 

A HAPPY ENDING r£ 

A LINGERING ADIEU ~g 

IT ALWAYS HAPPENS 60 

A STRAIGHT TIP TO ALBIUS .... 62 

BARINE, THE INCORRIGIBLE . . . ' . . 64 

HORACE LOSES HIS TEMPER .... 66 

A GRACEFUL EVASION 68 

TO CHLOE y Q 

TO CHLOE AGAIN y 1 

" THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES " . . . . J 2 

QUESTIONING LYDIA 7? 

ETUDE ON THE SAME THEME 74 

THE PASSING OF LYDIA 76 

REVENGE! 78 

BY WAY OF PERSUASION 80 

MEASURE FOR MEASURE 82 

" HE WHO LAUGHS LAST — " 83 

TO PYRRHA 84 

THE FICKLE LYDIA 85 

A BURLESQUE RONDO 87 

AN APPEAL 88 

ODE AGAINST ANGER 89 



Contents ix 

PAGE 

MUTINY 91 

HOLIDAY 93 

TO A FAUN 94 

aftermath 96 

railing at iccius 98 

pantoum of procrastination .... ico 

horace explains 102 

an invitation io4 

winter piece i06 

invocation io8 

the pine tree for diana io9 

a pleasant voyage for maevius . . . .110 

simplicity 112 

victorian simplicity ii3 

neapolitan simplicity 114 

seditious song against prohibition . . . ii5 

horace, temperance advocate . . . ii7 

trite triolets 119 

on pride, position, power, etc 120 

the golden mean 122 

civil war 123 

lugubrious villanelle of platitudes . . 125 

an infamous rendering 127 

prolog in the approved manner . . . 129 

spring summons ....... i3i 

the modest host 133 

the warrior returns 1 34 

the toast i36 

Cleopatra's death 138 

the ghost of archytas i4o 



x Contents 



PAGE 



TO THE (ROMAN) SHIP OF STATE .... I43 

TO MERCURY I45 

TO VIRGIL I47 

TO VENUS 149 

TO HIS LYRE 150 

TO APOLLO 152 

A COMPLACENT RONDEAU REDOUBLE . . .154 

HALF IN EARNEST I56 

"i CELEBRATE MYSELF " 1 57 

INDEX OF ODES 159 



INTRODUCTION 



Quintus Horatius Flaccus, popularly known as 
Horace, was born in Venusia, a town on the eastern 
slope of the Apennines, about sixty-five years before 
the Christian era. He lived fifty-seven years, and 
lived most of them fully, almost riotously. He was 
very much the product of his age ; in thought he was 
neither ahead of it nor behind it. When he was not 
consulting doctors or reading, he was fighting under 
Brutus against his future patron; carrying on a mul- 
tiplicity of amours ; indulging in a variety of wines ; 
suffering horribly in consequence ; taking the warm 
baths at Baiae and the cold ones at Clusium for his 
invalidism; forgetting caution and eating rich and 
almost fatal food with the Roman elite; listening half- 
credulous to the fortune-tellers at the Circus ; playing 
a game of ball with Maecenas ; and retiring now and 
then as a " gentleman- farmer " to his retreat in the 
Sabine hills. 

There were, of course, other distractions, but, ex- 
cept for one thing, he occupied himself very much as 
would any person of the comfortable middle-class of 
his time — or of ours. In those crowded fifty-seven 



xii Introduction 

years, whenever he was free from more fascinating 
diversions, he was a poet. And as a poet he com- 
posed vividly patriotic occasional odes, lively satires, 
charming and unforgettable vers de societc, and some 
of the dullest philosophical poems ever written by a 
genuine poet. 

Ever since Davidson published his translations in 
171 1, an entire literature has grown up around 
Horace, so great that the poet himself has been al- 
most obscured. Practically every editor has sent 
forth the Odes and Satires with a mass of erudite 
notes, of variorum readings, of grammatical and tech- 
nical criticisms, of dissertations on the metrical intrica- 
cies — a collection so weighty that it made Horace 
seem the pedantic and hair-splitting technician that 
every freshman suspects him of being. One comes, 
with surprise and gratification, upon such a fresh 
and energetic work as E. C. Wickham's " Horace for 
English Readers " (published at The Clarendon 
Press), in which Dr. Wickham treats Horace as an 
old friend instead of an old classic. In these almost 
casual prose versions the spontaneity and light-heart- 
edness of Horace's finest examples are preserved. 
And, to acknowledge the debt more directly, it is to 
this volume in particular that the present paraphraser 
has turned whenever his small and sketchy stock of 
Latin has failed him. 

Examine, for instance, Horace's love-poetry. Most 
of the translators have regarded Horace's amorous 
persiflage as the outpourings of an intense nature — 



Introduction xiii 

and have attempted to give it to us with this emphasis. 
Few indeed have done what Wickham has accom- 
plished in prose, given us Horace in his own mood — 
light, slyly mocking, petulant, often downright flip- 
pant. In spite of his immortal literary harem, his 
Lydias, his Chloes, his Pyrrhas, his Lalages, there is 
never in all of Horace's erotic rhymes the note of 
genuine passion. Unlike a poet such as Catullus, he 
never lets an emotion overmaster or even control him ; 
he is more concerned with the pleasantries, the disap- 
pointments, the incidents and ornaments of love, than 
with love itself. His attitude is almost that of an 
amused or interested spectator ; he keeps his head ; a 
wave of passionate joy or sweeping bitterness scarcely 
ever engulfs him. 

His amatory poetry reflects this : it is always ar- 
tistic, always conscious. It is the love-poetry of a 
middle-aged man; a record of memories, of gentle 
railleries, of approaching age and corresponding back- 
ward glances. The note is always that of sophistica- 
tion. It is never an outcry. It sings, but it does not 
surge ; it delights, but it never thrills. It is for this 
reason that the technically artificial versions of Austin 
Dobson, the colloquial adaptations of Eugene and 
Roswell M. Field, even the most slangy and impudent 
burlesques of Franklin P. Adams and Bert Leston 
Taylor reveal more of the living Horace than the 
meticulous gravity of Professor Conington and the 
precise but prosy translations of Addison and Ros- 
common. 



xiv Introduction 

Had Horace been content to remain the poet of 
ironical and generally playful verses, exquisite in form 
rather than in substance, the world would have lost 
some of the most dignified and illuminating records 
of Roman life that have ever been written; records 
that, in the satires, rise to eloquent heights. It would 
also have lost, as hinted before, the platitudinous and 
vague philosophical ramblings that mar much of his 
otherwise inimitable work. If the form and diction 
of the often quoted odes to Postumus, to Sallust, to 
Grosphus, to Leuconoe, were not so perfect, we should 
almost wish that Horace had never taken the time to 
write them. They are full of an empty didacticism 
that must have been hackneyed long before Solomon 
wrote the Proverbs. Robbed of the glamour of the 
verse and boiled down to its essentials, Horace's 
philosophy is as commonplace as it is reiterative. He 
cannot, it seems, get over the fact that life is a fragile 
thing and that we all must die. 

Over and over again he tells us to enjoy the pres- 
ent and distrust tomorrow. " The years slip by," he 
exclaims ; and, impressed with the profundity of this 
thought, repeats it at every opportunity. What are 
his words on wealth ? " All the gold in the world 
cannot keep you from dying." Likewise, " It is 
wrong to hoard money," and " The man who is happy 
is better than a king." His views on friendship? 
" Friendship is a boon ; it is more noble than love. 
Fill the waiting goblet ere death overtake us." Love? 
"A silly, childish game; changeable as the weather; 



Introduction xv 

war one moment, peace the next. It is beyond all rea- 
son or regulation." Enjoyment? "Pile on the 
fagots and bring forth the mellowed wine ; leave all 
else to the gods. Life is perilous and hard for those 
who do not drink. Be temperate, however, in your 
use of liquors; thirst turns bitter if indulged without 
restraint, and the man who cannot control himself is 
little better than a beast," etc., etc. ... It is the 
taking of such banalities seriously that robs the trans- 
lations of even so keen a humorist as Calverley of 
their otherwise noteworthy merit, and makes the ver- 
sions of lesser adapters both prim and pitiful. Noth- 
ing could be flatter and more vapid than many of 
these inconsequential thoughts — unless it is the flat 
and vacuous reproductions of those translators, fever- 
ishly intent upon revealing " every shade of Horace's 
philosophic searchings." 

But, though most of his odes and epodes present 
Horace with all his shortcomings as a lover and 
thinker, they (as well as the longer and less popular 
works) show him to be the most gifted and spontane- 
ous writer of occasional poetry in classic or, for that 
matter, all literature. The thinness of thought and 
mere graces of writing disappear whenever he turns 
to civic or national affairs, to chant of victories or 
patrons, to stir his countrymen to loftier aims — to 
become, in short, not so much the poet as the man. 

Whenever Horace forgot that he was " a high- 
priest of song," forgot his position as an intimate 
" friend of the Muses," he wrote the things that sur- 



xvi Introduction 

pass in power his most chiseled lyrics. He was a 
charming versifier every time he wrote a single line, 
but a great poet only when an occasional one. There 
was never in his time that peculiar apathy to this sort 
of verse which exists at present. The feeling which 
has inhibited the writer of " occasional verse " is the 
result of a strange misunderstanding: it is a prejudice 
which has its roots not so much in a dislike as an 
ignorance of the thing itself. Occasional poetry is, in 
the best sense, a truly living poetry, because in it the 
poet must celebrate an occasion rather than an abstrac- 
tion. It is the picture of an actual thing rather than 
a speculative generality. It is a pulsating, poetic 
microcosm; in it the poet must synchronize the 
thought, the temper, and the atmosphere of his times. 
Far from trivial, it makes greater demands upon the 
poet than almost any other manner or theme. It is 
never, as so many suppose, the exercise of the tyro ; 
it is the test of the master. The man who expresses 
it fully, expresses not only his age as seen by himself 
but himself as seen by his age. Horace did this un- 
questionably. The picture he gives of his period and 
his relation to it could not be equaled by a dozen 
volumes of historical data; it is glowing and inter- 
pretative — with a single exception. We learn from 
him little concerning the Woman of his day. 

Horace is essentially a man's poet, just as he was 
essentially a man's man. He never troubled himself 
to understand women in any other than a physical 
way. He never speaks of the quality of their minds 



Introduction xvii 

but always of the qualities of their bodies. Their 
whiteness or redness, their arms and ankles, their 
warmth or frigidity, seem to be the only things about 
them which interested him. One imagines that even 
a loose-living reprobate of a bachelor, such as Horace, 
must have known something more compelling in 
womankind than the poet saw fit to chronicle. He 
never regarded or even recognized them as social 
beings. They were, to him, so many " types " ; he 
seems never to have observed them even as individual 
mentalities. Once in a while he mentions the lower 
class of women, the peasants, the farmers' wives, with 
a grudging sort of respect. But beyond that he does 
not exert himself. One thinks of him, after many 
readings of his works, as an aesthetic philanderer; 
his attitude toward women being a combination of 
artistic admiration, playfulness, and uncomprehending 
ridicule. 

But the muse that prompted the Satires and Epistles 
— the one Horace calls his " Musa pedestris," who 
went humbly on foot along earthy roads instead of 
soaring about Olympus — gave him a far more serious 
and deep-rooted understanding than the spirit that 
prompted his other verses. These satires and letters 
are filled with a speech that is racy and casual. 
Horace still deals with his favorite topics : the wisdom 
of enjoying rather than desiring, the folly of hoard- 
ing, the shortness of life, the perplexity of religious 
beliefs. But there is more of the man in these lines ; 
they are keener, warmer, more a result of feeling 



xviii Introduction 

than of thinking. Often they take the flavor of 
causeries — so unrhetorical and vivid are his pungent 
ironies, his revealing bits of gossip. 

It is these qualities as well as the poems written dur- 
ing his " laureateship " which make him something 
more than a dextrous writer of immortal light verse. 
All in all his work, with its varying temper and its 
various influences, gives us his picture ineradicably. 
A keen observer, a commonplace philosopher, a crafts- 
man with a technique at his finger tips, a frank and 
full-blooded man — good-humored, carnal, something 
of the mocker, something of the priest. A curious 
blend, if one can picture it, of Austin Dobson, Hein- 
rich Heine, and Oliver Goldsmith. 

ii 

The present volume is an effort to do two things : 
First, to suggest, through the thin veil of parody, how 
certain other poets would have used Horatian sub- 
jects — and one famous theme in particular. Second, 
to present, in a loose set of paraphrases, the spirit 
rather than the letter of most of Horace's finest odes. 
A few of these renderings are almost literal trans- 
lations, approximating, as far as the language will 
permit, the meters of the original ; a few verge peril- 
ously on and even descend into burlesque. But the 
majority of the poems contained in the second part 
are light-hearted versions that, in their very fragility 
and varying verse-structure, attempt to reflect the 
grace and vivacity of the sparkling originals. I have 



Introduction xix 

not even tried (with two or three exceptions) to 
surmount the insuperable obstacles in the way of 
bringing over the Latin verse-forms intact into Eng- 
lish poetry. We have no natural counterparts for the 
Alcaiacs and Asclepiads so freely used by Horace. 
And although John Conington's amazingly precise 
measures and Warren Cudworth's strophe-for-strophe 
versions are gallant attempts, for which every student 
must be grateful, they remain among those works that 
have dared without attaining the impossible. 

It should also be said that the opinions expressed 
in this introductory note are personal rather than 
pedagogic. There have been many and striking dif- 
ferences. A. T. Quiller-Couch ("Q"), for one, 
flatly disagrees with a great part of the foregoing esti- 
mate of Horace's work. He believes that Horace's 
secret is buried in the Odes and " most defiant of 
capture there " ; the Satires having been imitated suc- 
cessfully by Cowper, Dryden, Pope, Goldsmith, and 
others. In the Odes, " Q " maintains, " lies that 
witchery of style which, the moment you lose grasp 
of it, is dissipated into thin air and eludes your con- 
centrated spirit." 

There now remains nothing but to acknowledge 
once more my indebtedness to E. C. Wickham's 
lively prose renderings, to the microscopic eye of 
Dudley F. Sicher, without whose vigilance this vol- 
ume would be even less authoritative than it is now, 
and to The Century, The New Republic, The Smart 
Set, Life, Vanity Fair, The New York Tribune, and 



xx Introduction 

The New York Evening Post for the privilege of 
reprinting several of the poems that are here collected. 
Two of these verses originally appeared in a previous 

volume of parodies (" and Other Poets") and 

the author thanks Henry Holt and Company for per- 
mission to reprint them in their present setting. 

L. U. 
New York, July, 1919. 



" INTEGER VITAE " 
(TWENTY-FOUR VERSIONS) 



ROBERT BRIDGES 

TRANSLATES IT IN ITS OWN CLASSIC MEASURES 

Integer vitae, scelerisque purus, 

non eget Mauris iaculis . . . Book I: Ode 22 

He who has lived a blameless life and pure one 
Needs naught of Moorish bows or mighty javelins, 
Needs neither armored plates nor poisoned arrows, 
Fuscus, to shield him, 

Whether he roams beside the shoals of Libya, 
Or through the barren Caucasus he wanders — 
Even in lands where, glorious in fable, 
Rolls the Hydaspes . . . 

Once in the Sabine woods a wolf beheld me 
Strolling about unarmed. He heard me singing, 
Singing a song of Lalage — and sudden 
The creature vanished. 

Direst of monsters! Such a savage terror 
Lurks not within the deepest woods of Daunia; 
Juba itself, the land that fosters lions, 
Breeds naught so frightful. 

3 



Robert Bridges 

Oh, place me amid icy desolation, 
Where not a tree is cheered by sunny breezes, 
Where Jove himself is only seen in sullen 
Sleet and gray weather; 

Or place me where the very Sun's great chariot 
Drives over me in lands that burn and wither — 
Still Lalage's sweet words and sweeter laughter 
Always shall rouse me. 



/ 

ROBERT HERRICK 

INCLUDES IT IN ONE OF HIS " PIOUS PIECES 

Fuscus, dear friend, 

I prithee lend 
An ear for but a space, 

And thou shalt see 

How Love may be 
A more than saving grace. 

As on a day 

I chanced to stray 
Beyond my own confines, 

Singing, perdie, 

Of Lalage, 
Whose smile no star outshines — 

So 'tranced were all 

Who heard me call 
On Love, that from a grot 

A wolf who heard 

That tender word 
Listened and harmed me not. 
5 



Robert Herrick 

Thus shielded by 

The magicry 
Of Love that kept me pure, 

I live to praise 

Her wondrous ways 
Where'er I may endure. 



There's but one plan: 

The honest man 
Wears Vertue's charmed spell; 

And, free from vice, 

That man lives twice 
Who lives the one life well. 



_.OBERT BROWNING 

ENLARGES UPON IT IN SEVERAL OF HIS MANNERS 
AND INTERPOLATES A LYRIC 



This is the tale: 

Friend, you shall know the right and the wrong of it. 

Listen, before old Sirius grows pale 

And the tang leaves the ale — 

For, saith the poet, all things have an end, 

Even beauty must fail, 

The rapture and song of it. 

Here, to be brief, is the short and the long of it — < 

Listen, my friend. 

ii 

Virtue, I hold, is the raiment to travel in. 
Fuscus, my friend, if you're swaddled in virtue, 
Never a spear-head, a sword or a javelin, 
No, not an arrow that's poisoned can hurt you. 
Virtue is more than a shield or a stirrup ; 
Virtue's the charm — it will shock sloth and rasp ease, 
Even in lands where the lazy Hydaspes 

7 



$ Robert Browning 

Ambles along like a curious syrup; 
Aye, and in climes where the voice is as raucous as 
Winds in the barren and harborless Caucasus. 
Fuscus, the man who is guiltless is fearless; 
He's of the chosen, the purple, the peerless — 
What does he care for a frown more, a cheer less? 
Bearing the falchion of Truth — 

But I bore you. 
Plague take all pedantry. Learning, what stuff is 

it . . . 
Weighty and erudite preambles — Sufficit! 
Here, you shall have only facts set before you, 
Told in my harsh but imperative accents. 
(Music in which the musician must pack sense 
Cannot be sensuous with every syllable) 
But — here's the tale, though as teller I'm ill able 
(Would I were worthy!) to render the glories 
Of my adventure — how goes it? . . . O mores! 
I tell it in rhyme like an intricate minuet 
To caution the soul that, I warrant, is in you yet; 
Didactic with hoping — why should I deny it — 
You'll guess at the moral and, what's more, apply it! 

in 

One day I went wandering casually; 

The sky was a deep lapis lazuli; 

The poplars were rustling with merriment, 

As half in a burst, half experiment, 

I sang, without fear or apology, 

Of honor, of love — and of Lalage. 



Robert Browning 9 

And yet, 'neath the ballad's urbanity 
Was an echo of Life and its vanity. 
The fabric of living, how sheer it is, 
How fragile . . . The song — eh? Well, here it is. 



IV * 

What's love that you should ask 
How long Life's sands will run — 

See how the butterflies bask 
On the crocus lips i' the sun. 

Theirs is no mighty task . . . 
And yet who'ld say ill-done? 

The years glide swiftly by. 

How swiftly, no one knows; 
The drainers and dancers will lie 

V the long, stark night 'neath the snows. 
The clay outlives the cry; 

The thorn survives the rose. 

Love, even as we stay, 

Age subtly strokes thy cheek. 
Let us snatch Time's sleeve zvhile we may, 

Ere the heart with the hand grows weak. 
Come, let us live to-day — 

What's life but loving . . . Speak! 

*Vide Book I: Ode if. 



IO Robert Browning 



Well, as I sang, thinking no whit of harm, 

I walked along, when . . . zooks, before me sprang 

A wolf, a monster with a head like Death's, 

As — how d'ye call — Apulia does not rear, 

Or Juba, land that's nursing-mother to lions, 

Never gave birth to. How my heart flew up! 

Gr-r-r-r he stood growling in my very path. 

Flesh and blood — that's all I'm made of, friend. 

What to do? Fly at his face? Turn tail 

And run as fast as legs could carry me? 

Thus, craving your pardon, sir, might you have done. 

Not I . . . My mind was set, my conscience clear; 

I faltered not and kept on with my song. 

With that the beast retreats, gives way, runs off — 

And I am left alone, unscratched, unscathed; 

A victor without arms, a conqueror without strife. 

(There's thought for you in this, and moral too.) 

And so all's right with me, and so I go 

Singing of Lalage in every place — 

Spring, summer, winter, autumn — what's the odds; 

Lalage, her sweet prattle, sweeter laughter . . . 

Believe it, Fuscus, to the righteous man 

There's no hurt in this world but love and song 

Can draw the sting and leave all sound again. 

Now, let us understand the matter, sift the thing. 

Here, in a nutshell, is the crux of it : 

Old Euclid teaches — ha! d'ye note the dawn! — 

That — What? Must you be going? 

Well, good-night . . . 



SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE 

LETS THE ANCIENT MARINER PARAPHRASE IT 



Horace 
meetetk a 
friend and 
detaineth 
him with 
advice. 



He liveth best who loveth best 
All virtues great and small, 

And neither knife nor heavy strife 
Shall make him fear at all. 



And telleth 
how the man 
that is clear 
of conscience 
goeth fully 
armed. 



He relateth 
a tale of 
a wondrous 
escape. 



How the 
wolf appeared 
to him and 
what ensued. 



Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

In lonely lands though he may be, 
He shall not lift his voice in moan 
But it shall have a pleasant tone, 

Like a blessed melody. 

listen well and I shall tell 
The reason of my rime. 

Know then, while walking it befell 

1 wandered through a little dell, 
Singing away the time. 

When huge and weird a wolf appeared, 

The while my singing ceased ; 
He looked me up, he looked me down, 
And, like a wave of living brown, 
With one stride came the beast. 



12 



Samuel T. Coleridge 



How that his 
own virtue 
made manifest 
to the beast, 
did save 
him. 



Without a breath, without a pause, 
I sang her name full clear. 

And seized with dread the monster fled; 

He saw about my shining head 
A stronger thing than fear . . . 



He teacheth, 
by his own 
example, love 
and reverence 
for all 
things. 



He liveth best who loveth best 
All things, below, above. 

So, Fuscus, call, the first of all 
And last of all, on Love! 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

SOLILOQUIZES UPON IT 

The quality of virtue is not strained; 
It falleth sweetly on the upright soul 
And clothes the spirit with a suit of mail. 
The honest man, with neither bow nor shield, 
Envenomed arrows, daggers, javelins, 
Can stand unarmed against a sea of troubles 
And, by opposing, end them. Whether he walk 
Beside the huge and multitudinous waves, 
Or through unharbored Caucasus he roam, 
Nothing shall lift its great, abhorrent head 
And freeze the quivering marrow in his bones. 
There's a divinity doth hedge a man 
Who feareth naught, rough-hew him how you will. 
Why, I have seen this wonder come to pass : 
As I went singing lately through a wood, 
A wolf all teeth, a wolf of savage hate, 
A wolf, whose every movement was a threat, 
Sprang at me snarling, like the winds of March. 
But king-becoming graces soothe the beasts 
And music charms them with her silver sound ; 
So on I went, unchecked by groveling fear. 
I tell thee, Fuscus, Life is but a plant; 
Honor and righteousness its sun and rain, 
And Heaven grants such precious nourishment 
To save the flower from the canker, Death. 
13 



A. C. SWINBURNE 

ALLITERATIVELY REVOLVES ALL AROUND IT 

No murmurs, no moons have arisen; 

No laughter to live with the light, 
And the earth, like a blind thing in prison, 

Must gnaw through the nimbus of night. 
We cry and we quail and we quiver, 

We fly from the fervors of Life — 
But the pure and the passionate liver 
Feareth no knife! 

The heaven is hushed, its great heart aches, 

The quiet is cruel and cold ; 
Yet somewhere a lyrical star takes 

My longings and gives them its gold. 
The world and its warring may rack me, 

Its sorrows may sting like a thong — 
But I sing and, though wolves should attack me, 
I thrill with my song. 

For Lalage's lips have the magic 

Of rhyme and the unravished rose; 
And the terrible times are not tragic; 

I am brave 'neath the bitterest blows. 
For She is the bountiful bringer 

Of joy even brighter than pain — 
And, blessed or damned, I shall sing her 
Again and again! 
14 



HEINRICH HEINE 

TRANSLATES IT INTO GERMAN, AFTER WHICH IT IS 
" ENGLISHED " BY JOHN TODHUNTER 

Good lives are like an arrow, 
So straight and clean and pure; 

The thought of them will gladden 
And move the heart, I'm sure. 

From out the songs I fashion 

There comes a strength so grand, 

That wolves and all things evil 
Its power cannot withstand. 

Where'er I go it follows, 

Like to the moon above ; 
And fills all the earth and heavens 

With love and the light thereof. 



15 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI & OSCAR WILDE 

BEGIN A BALLAD ON IT 

The wind is weary, the world is wan ; 

(Oh, lone, lank lilies and long, lean loves) 
My shield is shed, my armor is gone, 
And Virtue is all I depend upon. 

(My lily, 
My lissome lily, my languid love.) 

Full thirteen days have I walked with woe, 

(Oh dear, dead days and divine desires) 
And wolves may follow where'er I go, 
But nothing shall stop my song's sweet flow. 
(My lily, 
My love, my delirious, dark desire.) 

The night is old and threadbare and thin, 

(Oh limpid lily, oh labial love) 
And at this point I shall straightway begin 
Repeating the Ballad ad lib., ad infin. . . . 
(My lily, 

My lilting, loquacious, repetitive love.) 



16 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 

FINDS IT FULL OF LUNAR POSSIBILITIES 

It was midnight, the month was November; 

The skies, they were cheerless and cold, 

The forest was trembling and old ; 
And my heart it was grey, I remember, 

As I walked through the hyaline wold. 
The moon was a perishing ember, 

The heavens were ashen and cold. 

It was midnight, and so to restore me 
To laughter and solace from pain, 

I sang and the melody bore me 
To Israfel's bosom again, 
To the regions enchanted again ; 

I felt the dim Beauty flow o'er me, 
The fever of living seemed vain, 
And Death but a shadow of pain. 

And I sang, though a wolf stood before me. 

I sang of the terrors titanic, 

Of ghouls and the breath of the tomb, 
Of scoriae floods and volcanic, 
Of Helen, Lenore, Ulalume, 
Of devils from hell free, 
Of bells in the belfry, 
17 



1 8 Edgar Allan Poe 

Of the banging and the clanging as they boom, 
boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. 

I sang of these things, and in panic 
The wolf disappeared in the gloom — 

He left me alone in the gloom. 

But Lalage's eyes I remember; 

I shall dream of them till I grow old, 
When Lenore and Ligeia are cold. 

They are with me in June and September, 

October, November, December, — 

Though the skies may be barren and old, 
And the forest is nothing but mold ; 

Though the moon is a perishing ember, 
And the heavens are ashen and cold. 



C. S. CALVERLEY 

TRIES IT IN A NEW METER 

The man who's had a blameless life 

Never needs armor, 
Nor Moorish spear nor two-edged knife; 
Nothing will harm or 
Impede his progress in the land 
Of Caucasus or Libya; and 
Though others' joys be sweetly planned 
His will be far more. 

Once, I recall, as through a wood 

Where fancy led me, 
I sang of Lalage (too good 
And fair to wed me), 
A wolf that happened to appear, 
Stopped as he saw me passing near 
And, half in wonder, half in fear, 

Abashed, he fled me. 
***** 
Still will I sing of her, although 

I dwell forever 
In barren lands 'mid ice and snow, 
Or those where never 
19 



20 C. S. Calverley 

The kindly shade and shelter are 
Beneath Apollo's flaming car. 
She still will be the guiding star 
Of my endeavor. 



AUSTIN DOBSON 

BUILDS A RONDEAU AROUND IT 

An upright man need never dread 
The blows of Fate; he who has led 
A blameless life is safer far 
Than kings in frowning castles are, 
For he is armed with Truth instead. 

Once, as I roamed with careless tread, 
A wolf who heard me turned and fled. 
He felt that I was, more than czar, 
An upright man. 

So when the last refrain is said 
Above my narrow, rose-strewn bed, 

Say not, " He worshiped flower and star." 
Say not, "He loved satis let or bar." 
But write these words above my head: 
" An Upright Man." 



21 



WALT WHITMAN 

RHAPSODIZES ABOUT IT 

I sing the conscience triumphant, 

I celebrate the body invulnerable. 

The firm tread, the square jaw, the unflinching eye, 
the resolute voice, 

Mind equal with matter, I chant. 

I see the Roman singer standing erect, 

His figure rises 

Masculine, haughty, naif ; 

He confronts and answers me. 

Me, spontaneous, imperturbe, 

Loafing, swaggering, at ease with Nature, 

Passive, receptive, gross, immoderate, fit, 

Broad-shouldered and ripe, a good feeder, weight 
one hundred and eighty-seven pounds, warm- 
blooded, forty-two inches around the breast 
and back, voluptuous, combative, vulgar, 

Bearded, continental, prophetic; 

Understander of beasts and scholars, meeting children 
and Presidents on equal terms. 

I hail him with the others. 

He, walking about unarmed and care-free, 

Pleased with all countries, climates, conditions, 

Pleased with bleak Caucasus, sultry Syrtes, the woods 
of Daunia, 



Walt Whitman 23 

Pleased with all seasons, fortunes, women, the native 
as well as the foreign ; 

Fearing no thing, hating no thing, 

Upright in life, of conduct clean ; 

A lover, caresser of life, prodigal, inclusive, 

Him I hail without effuse or argument. 

I accept him, do not scrape or salaam, 

Knowing him to be made of the right stuff, 

No perfumed dilettante, no dainty affetuoso, 

But a man, 

Upright, solemn, desperate, yearning, puzzled, turbu- 
lent, sound, 

Loved by men, misunderstood by men, 

Going on, fulfilling the hopes of a great rapport. 

Libertad ! — the divine average ! — the rich melange ! — 

On the wasted plain, the dark-lipped sea, the hottest 
noon, the bitterest twelfth-month 

Solitary, singing, I strike up and declare for these. 



J. M. SYNGE 

PUTS IT INTO THE IDIOM OF THE ARRAN ISLANDS 

And it's himself that should have no call to be fear- 
ing hard words or bitter blows or evil gossip or to be 
destroyed by the blow of a loy, itself — he, after living 
a good life and a fine one. Many's the night I have 
walked whistling along a twisty road with no light 
ahead and no light behind, and only a slip of a moon, 
like the youngest of the angels, timid and bobbing 
before me. And sometimes, maybe, it would be in a 
wood I'd find myself, fearing no wolves or any living 
thing at all, but would be after dreaming of grand 
evenings in houses of gold or be listening to the young 
girls and young men making mighty talk. And 
there'd be little stirring but the sound of laughter far 
off — and I lifting my voice in lonely song. Ah, it's 
a great blessing, I'm saying, to be pure of heart and 
to have the sweetness of youth and the lonely wis- 
dom of the old. And it's a better thing, I'm thinking, 
to have the grand gift of song ; to be singing even 
when the suns of June do be broiling or the bitter 
winds do be blowing on me, till I'd feel my blood 
stopping like a small stream in the winter nights. For 
it's the singer that's young and wise, and the sweet- 
ness of all the ages is given to him, surely. 

24 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

MAKES AN INDIANA " NEIGHBORLY POEM " OUT OF IT 

I ain't, ner don't p'tend to be, 

Much posted on philosofy, 

But to my truly rural mind 

The feller that is good an' kind 

Ain't worritin' his whole life through 

'Bout what the worl' might say er do. 

I alius argy that a man 
That lives as natchurl as he can 
Is jes' as safe as safe can be 
In fur-off lands as Zekesbury. 

Why, onc't I kindo' los' my way 
In Mills's woods, but I wuz gay 
An' singin'-like, when — Jeemses-whizz ! 
A wolf that looked like he ment biz, 
Come snarlin' at me . . . Wuz I skeered? 
I kep' right on. He disappeared ! 
An' sence that day my doctern's bin 
To teach all you-uns how to win 
The goal by livin' as you oughter. 
(A Ho osier-picture here by Vawter). 
25 



26 James White omb Riley 

I ain't, ner don't p'tend to be, 
Much posted on philosofy, 
But to my truly rural mind 
It pays to jes' be good an' kind. 



GUY WETMORE CARRYL 

TURNS IT INTO A NEW FABLE FOR THE FRIVOLOUS 

Beneath a wood's umbrageous limbs, 
Where leaves and beasts aplenty lay, 

A Latin bard went singing hymns 
Of where festina lente lay. 

Unarmed, unharmed he walked along; 

His ardor and his voice were strong; 

And all the forest heard his song, 
His dolce-far-niente-\a.y. 

Gaily he sang of love — when lo, 

A savage wolf confronted him; 
The creature looked and eyed him so, 

It looked as if it wanted him. 
But Horace (thus he leaped to Fame), 
Acting as though the beast were tame, 
Sang, " Nice old doggie. What's your name? 
In short, it never daunted him. 

And, like a skilful amateur, 

He jumped an octave tastily. 
The wolf, although no connoisseur, 

Went off a little space till he 
27 



28 Guy Wetmore Carryl 

Observed that Horace loved to dwell 
On all the trills and high-notes. Well, 
The beast gave one reproachful yell 
And left the poet — hastily! 

THE MORAL: Every student will 
Applaud the beast with such a vim; 
They too of Horace get their fill 
Instead of just a touch of him. 
The wolf, when Horace would not cease, 
Could get no piece, lean or obese — 
And since he gave the wolf no peace, 
The wolf had far too much of him! 



W. H. DAVIES 

MAKES IT SIMPLER THAN EVEF 

The man that's good, 

He never has 
To wear a hood 

Of steel or brass. 

No shield he's got, 
No sword or gun; 

He's safe in what 
He may have on. 

A friend of elves, 
He tries his tunes 

On shaggy wolves 
And burly bruins. 

He sings an air 

That's old and sweet, 
And ladies fair 

Sit at his feet. 

They give him tea, 
They bring him food. 

Who would not be 
The man that's good? 
29 



ROBERT FROST 

TAKES IT UP TO NEW HAMPSHIRE 

He took the rifle from the cupboard shelf 
And, having oiled the catch and greased the barrel, 
He put it back again. At last he turned 
And tried the window-locks, and stood awhile 
Watching the snow pile hummocks on itself 
Where there was scarcely any need for mounds, 
And lay fresh sheets above the piece of ground, 
Such as it was, that soon would be his bed. 
Something, somebody's saying, half a phrase 
Kept him there standing at the kitchen door. 
It almost came, escaped him, and went out 
Back to the pine-trees where it grew. He followed, 
Afraid of nothing but a childish fear 
Of all outdoors that made him hum his tune 
A little louder than he meant to do. 
" In Amsterdam there lived a maid " — and so 
On to the shameless end of it; at least 
Nearly the end. For, toward the final bars, 
Behind the witch-grass and hepaticas, 
A great white wolf appeared as suddenly 
As though the snow had made or blown him there. 
He thought of fairy-tales he had forgotten 
And what, for reasons, he could not forget 
30 



Robert Frost 31 

Of werewolves and the time he had run off 

To see the animals in Barnum's circus. 

He took a doubtful step and then undid it 

To gain a minute's time; thought of the gun 

Within hand's reach ; then put the thought 

Out of his mind to let another in : 

Something he must have heard or maybe read 

Concerning music and the savage breast. 

So to his song again, and to the last 

Lewd notes of it. When he looked up, there was 

A windless stir in the forsythia trees, 

An empty space where the strange beast had been, 

And nothing else changed from an hour ago. 

The moon went through a twisted apple tree 

That leaned its crooked length against the sky. 

A log snapped in the stove, reminding him 

That he had meant to bring some kindling in 

And that it must be late and he was cold. 

He watched the moon a moment, shut the door; 

Tried all the window-locks again, pulled down 

The shades, blew out the light and clomped upstairs. 



CARL SANDBURG 

CONSIDERS IT ON STATE STREET, CHICAGO, ILL. 

Take it from me, 
When the cops are gone and the long barrels of the 

Remingtons are only a long smear of rust, 
When the guns of France and the arrows of Rome 

Are part of the red mud, 
When the chilled steel rots, 

The lovers will rise . . . from the dusk ... in 
the new grass. 

Take it from me, 

When New York is corn for the huskers, and Pekin 

and Hamburg are mixed with the dust of 

Daunia, 
When the gray wolf prowls in the jungle that used 

to be Main Street, 
The lovers will sing ... in the dusk ... in 

the new grass. 

Believe me or not, Danny, 

Iron won't help and the sword will be softer than 

virtue. 
You'll know, some day, I said a mouthful, 
When a young star winks at you through a cobweb 
32 



Carl Sandburg 33 

And the ghosts of the past are put out of business. 
When the old moon stands still and the earth is 

rammed into silence, 

Take it from me, 
The lovers will laugh ... in the dusk ... in 

the new grass. . . . 



EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON 

IS HALF-CAUSTIC, HALF-CRYPTIC ABOUT IT 

Horatius Flaccus, child of fate, 

Was honest as the fabled farmer; 
His gentle virtues held him strait 

As though they were a suit of armor. 
His guileless spirit always hid 
What ruder natures went and did, 
And all he knew of ways forbid 
Was kept from every charmer. 

Careless of this or that mischance, 

He walked the outskirts daily; 
Convinced that each fell circumstance 

Would somehow meet him gaily. 
So that he watched with half a yawn 
A brute upon his new-cut lawn, 
A hairy sort of devil's spawn, 
Red-eyed and almost scaly. 

The creature stretched unearthly jaws; 

Hell opened to affright him. 
But Flaccus, holding to the laws 

Of what could not excite him, 
34 



Edwin Arlington Robinson 35 

Followed a path direct and long, 
Continuing to shape his song; 
" The man," it went, " who knows no wrong 
Is armed " ... ad infinitum. 

And with this bland, incurious faith 

He passed a calm existence ; 
Having, for all the ghosts, no wraith 

Of question or resistance ; 
Held to a bright security, 
Like sunlight on a fallen tree, 
Or voices rising from the sea, 

Waking a moonlit distance. 



AMY LOWELL 

GROWS POLYPHONICALLY PROSY CONSIDERING IT 

North, South, East, West, there is no rest for a 
man save he has something stronger than arrows or 
a narrow shield to guard him. Hard are the envious 
blows of critics, a multitude of foes, but harder still 
are the mind and will of the man who has fought dis- 
tortion for a span of years. Fears are not his por- 
tion ; his life, squandered so soon, goes to the tune 
of Blood and Honey. 

Blood and Honey! It sings in the glittering sands 
of the Hydaspes. Blood and Honey! It rings 
through the bitter lands of Caucasus and skirts the 
chrome-yellow Syrtes, rambling along its bramble- 
covered sides. Blood and Honey ! It glides and 
swings its flame-colored notes against the polished 
throats of Canterbury bells ; swells and spills its 
lavish rhythms over daffodils and squills. The lilies 
with breasts of alabaster and hearts of snow tremble 
and glow among the asters, japonica, larkspur, and 
sword-shaped iris-leaves. The pattern weaves and 
interweaves. Blood and Honey! 

In the heart of a wood, 
One man is faced by a wolf. 
He pauses and stares — 
Stopped by the torture of a blood-shot sun, 
36 



Amy Lowell 37 

Held by the mauve and cobalt clattering in the west. 

He hesitates . . . then sings. 

Dragonflies dart about him, 

Like multi-colored arrows; 

An iris — or is it a butterfly? — 

Opens and closes its leaf-like wings ; 

Plum-blossoms settle on his shoulders, 

Crystals of fragrant snow; 

The sky is lacquered with lilac and red. 

The song ascends. 

And with it rises an enameled moon . . . 

In the heart of a wood 

One man is singing alone. 

And still he sings ! Carried on fantastic wings, his 
passion seeps through the earth, sweeps over water, 
leaps through the air. Everywhere its echoes wake 
laughter and unrest in a thousand breasts. It never 
stops, but drops of its music fall like the tinkle of 
pearls in a silver pan. Sweetly-smiling, sweetly- 
prattling girls rattle their bracelets and keep beguiling 
man with snatches of its magic. Its beauty catches 
one by the heart, the throat. It floats, like ivory surf 
on the curved tops of waves, into each dusty corner 
of the years. One hears it going on ... on ... it 
never veers . . . Straight on it goes, stopped by no 
gate ; it knows no bars. On . . . on . . . push- 
ing against the pointed stars . . . Crushing out wars 
and hate . . . On . . . on . . . 



THE IMAGISTS 

MAKE WHAT THEY CAN OF IT 

Listen, 

Aristius Fuscus; 

it is not the quiver 

bursting with arrows, 

nor sudden spears, 

nor certainly the warmth of 

confident armor 

that shields 

a man . . . 

Here is a wood 

full of blue winds 

and dead symbols; 

full of white sounds, 

hints out of China, 

and clashing invisible flowers . 

Why should I tremble? 

Now let me pause . . . 
now let me sing of you, 
plangent and conquering . . . 
with furious hair, 
green and impalpable features, 
and fluent caresses . . . 
38 



The Imagists 39 

why should I tremble, 

and stammer 

like moonlight 

caught on black branches . . . 

Now like a fish 

in the net of to-morrow 

let my heart batten 

on the thought of your face; 

let my soul feed 

on the red rind of passion, 

softly . . . exulting. 

Out of the hush 
of the arches of night, 
from the core of despair 
let me remember 
climate and javelins, 
laughter and Lalage, 
virtue and wolves . . . 
And so forth . . . 

Et cetera 



CONRAD AIKEN & T. S. ELIOT 

COLLABORATE UPON IT 

It is late, says Fenris, and the evening trembles 

Like jelly placed upon an old man's table. 

It is late, he says, and I am scarcely able 

To keep my collar up, attend the latest play, 

Mumble stale gossip ; cough and turn away ; 

Grope in confusion down an endless hall. 

The evening drags . . . and why should I dissemble? 

I am tired, I tell you, tired of it all . . . 

The heavy dawns, the dying fall 

Of music ending in a cloud of gray. 

Virtue is ashes; mist and fog 

Cover the worm-eaten trees. A block away 

Some one is singing tunes to a mangy dog. 

A thin light tops the sky like a moldy crust. 

And should I read a paper, smoke a pipe, 

While the full moon hangs like an overripe 

Pippin upon the rotted branch of day? 

Twilight and sodden rain . . . boredom and lust . . . 

It is like a piece I used to play . . . 

IWhat were the lines? ... I dream ... I cannot 

say . . . 
The harlot's laugh has a coating of rust . . . 

40 



Conrad Aiken & T. S. Eliot 41 

There was a bow . . . and javelins . . . some one 

said 
Juba ... or was it Lalage ... I forget. 
I am tired, I tell you, tired . . . and yet 
How shall I force the ineffectual crisis? 
The air is poisoned with a delicate regret. 
In the Copley-Plaza men are serving ices. 
I fidget in my seat, pull down my vest; 
Adjust my new cravat and chatter, while 
Death slides among the dancers, strokes a breast, 
Rattles the xylophone, slinks down the hall 
And pares an apple with a weary smile. 
The music twists and curves ... an alley cat 
Adds its high tenor; wan, malignant, flat. 
A siren echoes . . . Can I have no rest? 
For I am tired . . . tired of the strident brawl . . . 
Tired of ennui . . . tired of it all . . . 
Silence is better than the twice-expressed. 
In countless volumes new leaves turn and fall . . . 
I have seen them all ... I have seen them all. 



FRANKLIN P. ADAMS 

TREATS IT FAMILIARLY 



Fuscus, old top, an honest phiz 

Fears no police-court's shameful durance; 
The guy who's square — his virtue is 
His life insurance. 



He's playing safe. He wears his grin 

Alike in Brooklyn or Tahiti, 
In Murky Michigan or in 

This well-known city. 



Why, once when I had lost my way 

A wolf espied and almost clutched me; 
I merely sang a tune — and say, 
He never touched me. 



And such a wolf ! It seemed at least 

A dozen to your Uncle Horace ; 
As Terence said, it was some beast! 
Believe me, Mawruss. 
42 



Franklin P. Adams 43 

Since then I've strayed without a pang 
Wherever f - - kle Fo - - une bore me ; 
No foes came near whene'er I sang — 
They fled before me. 



So, as a lyric Q. E. D. — 

When this here planet's " dry " — and tearful, 
Keep singing. . . . That's my recipe? 
You said an earful. 



IRVING BERLIN 

JAZZES IT UP IN RAGTIME 

Mister Horace, won't you come and sit with me ; 
Play a tune that's made an awful hit with me. 
Go and get your fiddle; 

Rosin up your bow; 
Here's a little riddle 
That I'd like to know. 

So 

Tell me why your music makes me feel so good; 
Cheers up everybody in the neighborhood. 
I ain't never worried; 

Gee! I'm awful strong 
For the grass and cows and chickens 
And my heart beats like the dickens 
When I hear you singing that song. 

Chorus: 
Play me that Integer Vitae Rag; 

(It gives me joy.) 
Lose your blues and go on a musical jag. 

(Oh boy!) 
It's the latest, greatest, sort of new sensation, 
Watch your step ! There's pep in this here syncopation. 
Don't it beat creation how it hits you with a slam ! 

(My honey lamb!) 
44 



Irving Berlin 45 

So play that mysterious, serious drag; 

{Oh mister please!) 
I'd get delirious if it should weary us and lag — 

{I'm on my knees.) 
Take my rings and other things, my socks or nightie, 
If you'll only play that flighty, Gosh Almighty, 

Highty-tighty, 

Integer Vitey 
Ra-hag ! 



OTHER ODES 



"ON WITH THE DANCE!" 

Quid bellicosus . . . Book II: Ode iz 

Why all these questions that worry and weary us? 

Let's drop the serious role for a while. 
Youth, with smooth cheeks, will be laughing behind us ; 

Age will not mind us; the cynic — he'll smile. 

Come, for the gray hairs already are fretting us; 

Girls are forgetting us. Lord, how we've got! 
Come, let's convince them our blood is — well, red yet. 

We are not dead yet. Let's show them we're not! 

Yes, we'll have cups till you can't keep a count of 
them; 

Any amount of them — hundreds, at least. 
I'll have the table all tempting and tidy — 

And we'll get Lyde to come to the feast! 



"TEARS, IDLE TEARS ..." 

Quid fles, Asterie . . . Book III : Ode 7 

Why are you weeping for Gyges ? 

Your lover, though absent, is true. 
As soon as warm weather obliges, 
He'll come back to you. 

At Oricus, snow-bound and grieving, 

He yearns for domestic delights. 
He longs for the moment of leaving; 
He lies awake nights. 

His hostess, a lady of fashion, 

Is trying to fan up a few 
Stray flames of his fiery passion, 
Lit only for you. 

With sighs and suggestive romances 

She does what a sorceress can. 
But Gyges — he scorns her advances; 
The noble young man. 

But you — how about your bold neighbor? 

Does he please your still lachrymose eye? 
When he gallops past, flashing his saber, 
Do you watch him go by? 
50 



"Tears, Idle Tears . . ." 51 

When he swims, like a god, down the river, 

Do you dry the perpetual tear? 
Does your heart give the least, little quiver? 
Be careful, my dear. 

Be warned, and be deaf to his pleadings; 

To all of his questions be mute. 
Do not heed any soft intercedings 
That rise from his flute. 

Lock up when the day has departed, 

Though the music grows plaintive or shrill. 
And though he may call you hard-hearted, 
Be obdurate still! 



GROWING OLD DISGRACEFULLY 

Uxor pauperis Ibyci . . . Book III: Ode 15 

B.C. 35 

Wife of poor Ibycus, listen ; a word with you. 

How can you seem so outrageously gay? 
Think of your age! It is sad and absurd, with you 
Acting this way. 

Truly, old lady, it's time that you ceased all this; 

Here, with young girls, you should never be found. 
Stop those ridiculous antics ; at least all this 
Running around. 

It's all very well for a kitten like Pholoe 

To smile at the lads who repay her in kind, 
But when you approach them, they rapidly stroll 
away — 

Lord, are you blind! 

Strange, you won't see that the thing which delights 
a man 
Is always the dancer and seldom the dance; 
A Thyiad with white hair and wrinkles affrights a 
man; 

He looks askance. 
52 



Growing Old Disgracefully £3 

Roses and romance and wine-jars are not for you; 

There is the loom and the raw wool to comb, 
Mending and baking and — oh, there's a lot for you 
Right here at home! 

A.D. 1919 
You are old, Mrs. Ibycus, wrinkled and old, 

And still you are going the pace; 
Your actions are scandalous. Really, I'm told 

They know you all over the place. 

You doll yourself up like a girl of sixteen, 

You tango from morning to night; 
You wear out your partners, you primp and you 
preen — 

" Do you think, at your age, it is right ? " 

You run after boys that are just out of school; 

You trot with your daughter's young men; 
Forgetting that chickens may do, as a rule, 

What's forbidden a silly old hen. 

Oh rub off the rouge of your giddy career, 
And send back your drinks to the bar; 

" The home is the sphere for a woman," my dear, 
— When the woman's as old as you are. 



THE TEASING OF XANTHIAS 

Ne sit ancillae . . . Book II: Ode 4 

You never need blush, since your love for a hand-maid, 
Friend Xanthias, is known to — well, more than a 
few. 
Conceal it no more. Here's a girl who is planned, made 
And fashioned for you. 

Briseis, the slave-girl, with tints like the lily's, 

Her body a mingling of fire and snow, 
Enraptured the noble and haughty Achilles — 
A thing that you know. 



And Ajax, the fearless and well-known defier, 

Was snared by Tecmessa, the modest and grave; 
Though he was a lord who could surely look higher, 
And she was his slave. 



And as for your Phyllis who scorns your sesterces, 

Her family tree may be broad as an oak's. 
Her people, I'm sure, though upset by reverses, 
Were eminent folks. 
54 



The Teasing of Xanthias 55 

A girl so devoted, unlike any other 

Your arm may have had the occasion to crush, 
Could never, believe me, be born of a mother 
For whom you need blush. 



Her arms and the turn of her ankles enthuse me; 

Her face has the glamour that all men adore. 
What ! Jealous ? You mean it ? Go on — you amuse 
me! 

I'm forty — and more. 



A HAPPY ENDING 

Donee gratus eratn tibi . . . Book III: Ode 9 
HORACE 

Once (even twice) your arms to me would cling, 

Before your heart made various excursions; 
And I was happier than the happiest king 
Of all the Persians. 

LYDIA 

So long as I remained your constant flame. 

I was a proud and rather well-sung Lydia, 
But now, in spite of all your precious fame, 
I'm glad I'm rid o' ye. 

HORACE 

Ah well, I've Chloe for my present queen. 

Her voice would thrill the marble bust of Caesar; 
And I would exit gladly from the scene 
If it would please her. 

LYDIA 

And as for me, with every burning breath, 

I think of Calais, my handsome lover, 
For him not only would I suffer death, 
But die twice over. 
56 



A Happy Ending 57 



HORACE 



What if the old love were to come once more 
With smiling face and understanding tacit; 
If Chloe went, and I'd unbar the door, 
Would you — er — pass it? 



LYDIA 



Though he's a star that's constant, fair and true, 
And you're as light as cork or wild as fever; 
With all your faults I'd live and die with you, 
You old deceiver! 



A LINGERING ADIEU 

AS W. S. GILBERT MIGHT HAVE RENDERED IT 
Vixi puellis nuper tdoneus . . . Book III: Ode 26 

As a militant lover 

I've taken to cover; 
The lyrics of love — I have sung them all. 

My lutes and my armor 

Will rouse not a charmer; 
In the temple of Venus I've hung them all. 

Though aging and hoary, 

Yet not without glory 
I entered Love's lists when he 'sought me to; 

Each maid I enraptured, 

I came, saw and captured — 
And lo, this is what it has brought me to. 

Here, then, lay the crow-bars; 

The door now needs no bars 
That used to be fastened so tight to me. 

Lay down Cupid's arrows — 

The thought of them harrows 
When girls are no sort of delight to me. 
58 



A Lingering Adieu 59 

Yet, Goddess, whose feelings 

Know not the congealings 
Of Winter, the sting and the clutch of it, 

Come down where it's snowy, 

And give this cold Chloe 
The lash — and a generous touch of it! 



IT ALWAYS HAPPENS 

Albi, ne doleas plus nimio memor 
immitis Glycerae . . . Book I: Ode 33 

Grieve not too much, my Albius, since Glycera is no 
longer 
As worthy of your constant love and amatory sighs 
As in the yesterdays, and since a taller man and 
younger, 
Who once embraced her slender waist, seems fairer 
in her eyes. 

Lycoris of the little brow loves Cyrus unrequited; 

While he in turn will madly burn for rustic Pholoe — 
Yet shall Apulian wolves with docile she-goats be 
united 
Ere he persuade this wilful maid to smile and turn 
his way. 

Such is the will of Her who rules the destinies of 
lovers ; 
For Cupid's courts hold cruel sports when wanton 
Venus reigns. 
And underneath her brazen yoke one oftentimes dis- 
covers 
Young couples who, ill-suited to each other, curse 
their chains. 

60 



It Always Happens fri 

Thus once the little Myrtale, a slave-born girl and 
lowly, 
As wild and free as is the sea beneath Calabrian 
skies, 
So captured me with pleasing ways I swore to love 
her solely — 
When from the glade a worthier maid looked on 
with longing eyes. 



A STRAIGHT TIP TO ALBIUS 

(THE SHADE OF VILLON SPEAKS) 
Albi, ne doleas . . . Book I: Ode 33 

Stop being peeved about that skirt ; 

Cut out those maudlin songs — and hurry! 
What if she is a heartless flirt? 
You should worry! 

You know that little low-brow dame, 

Lycoris — well, her eyes still glisten 
Only for Cyrus Whatsisname. 

And he — Well, listen . . . 

Cyrus, the unresponsive brute, 

To Pholoe turns all his wooing; 
But she — she doesn't give a hoot; 
There's nothing doing. 

She tells him, with a tilted nose, 

Together goats and wolves will revel 
Before she'll have him ... So it goes. 
It beats the devil. 
62 



A Straight Tip to Albius 63 

Yes, so it goes. Why, look at me. 

Once I was more than happy, sowing 
Wild oats with Mamselle Myrtale; 
She had me going. 



And all the while a loftier miss 

Desired me ... I should regret it? 
No, Albius. In a case like this, 
Old top, forget it. 



BARINE, THE INCORRIGIBLE 

Ulla si iuris . . . Book II: Ode 8 

If only once for every perjured oath, 

Each broken tryst and troth, 
One punishment, one scar, one cheek too pale, 

One broken finger-nail; 
If but one blemish would appear and grieve you, 
I might believe you. 

But in your case, with every faithless vow 

You sparkle more somehow; 
You go abroad to break, with bright untruth, 

The hearts of all our youth ; 
You swear still falsely by the gods above you — 
And still they love you! 

Yes, Venus gossips with her laughing crew, 

While every Nymph laughs too; 
And even Cupid, busy at his art, 

Pointing the fiery dart, 
In spite of all his labors pauses nightly, 
And chuckles lightly. 
64 



Barine, the Incorrigible 65 

Beguiled by you the lad grows up your slave, 

Freed only by the grave. 
And though he leaves you, though the new-wed 
spouse 
Forsakes your godless house, 
He comes back pleading at your doors for mercy — 
Light-hearted Circe! 



HORACE LOSES HIS TEMPER 

Extremum Tanain si biberes . . . Book III: Ode 10 

Your husband is stern and you're adamant, Lyce, 

Oh yes, there is not the least doubt of it. 
But open the door, for the weather is icy; 
Let me in out of it. 

Oh, cruel you are to behold me, unweeping, 

All huddled and drenched like a rabbit here; 
Exposed to the pitiless snow and the sweeping 
Winds that inhabit here. 

The blast, like the sharpest of knives, cuts between 
us — 
Ah, will you rejoice if I freeze to death? 
Come, put off the pride that is hateful to Venus; 
Come, ere I sneeze to death! 

Your sire was a Tuscan — may Hercules club me 

Or crush out my life like a mellow pea — 
But who in Gehenna are you that you snub me? 
You're no Penelope ! 
66 



Horace Loses His Temper 67 

Forgive me. I know that I rail like a peasant, — 

But, won't you be more than a friend to me? 
Won't tears and my prayers — and the costliest present 
Make you unbend to me? 



Once more I implore ; give my pleadings a fresh hold ; 
My soul in its torment still screams to you . . . 
What? Think you I'll lie down and die on your 
threshold ? 

Good Night! And bad dreams to you! 



A GRACEFUL EVASION 

Scriberis Var'io . . . Book I: Ode 6 

Some other bard, Vipsanius, less wedded to his slavery, 
Some lyricist like Varius with a more Homeric 
touch, 
Shall celebrate your victories, belligerence and brav- 
ery, 
Shall sing about your leadership, your strategy and 
such. 

But I, dear general, such as I who could not think an 
Odyssey, 
Can no more sing your martial deeds than tell the 
burning tale 
Of Troy or shrewd Ulysses when, deserted by a god- 
dess, he 
Defied the sea heroically with half a tattered sail. 

I know my limitations and — this is no mock humility — 
My lyre balks at thundering themes and other war- 
like lures; 
Its pleasant lilt, its fluent grace, its rhythmical facility 
Would only serve to dull the edge of Caesar's fame 
— and yours. 

68 



A Graceful TLvasion 69 

The deeds of Mars and Diomed and other ancient 
gory ones, 
Are not for him who lacks the voice although he has 
the will. 
The battles I immortalize are chiefly amatory ones, 
The wars, the struggles waged with arms that wound 
but never kill. 



TO CHLOE 

Vitas inuleo me similis, Chloe, . . . Book I: Ode 23 

Though all your charms in a sweet disarray, 
Chloe, have won me, you shun me as though 

I were a tiger that searches for prey, 
I would not hurt you, your virtue is so 

Glowing that passion is melted away. 

As a lost fawn, wandered far as it could, 
Starts at the breezes and freezes with fear 

At the least sound from the ground where it stood; 
Flies and escapes from the shapes that appear 

And the whispering leaves in the murmurous wood, 

So you evade me, my Chloe, and you 
Daily dissemble ; you tremble when I, 

Singing your loveliness, tell what is true ; 
And, should I hold you or scold you, you fly 

Out of my arms, like a bird to the blue! 

I seek you and capture the ghost of a scent; 

Though I pursue you, I woo you in vain. 
Come, nights like these for dim courtships were meant, 
When Love sings, half-breathless, the deathless re- 
frain, 
When dark willows call and the night-wind is spent. 

70 



TO CHLOE AGAIN 

Vitas inuleo me similis, Chloe, . . . Book I : Ode 23 

You shun me, Chloe, like a fawn 

That, frightened, seeks its timorous mother, 
Running this way and the other, 

When familiar paths are gone; 

Starting at the lightest breeze, 
Or a bush stirred by a lizard, 
Or when Spring, the gentle wizard, 
Trembles in her knees. 

Chloe, do not fear me so — 

I am not a beast to scare you, 

Not a lion that would tear you; 
Do not treat me as a foe. 
Chloe, leave your mother's side; 

Come, you are a child no longer. 

Make your faint desires stronger — 
Be a bride. 



71 



" THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES " 

Non vides quanto . . . Book III: Ode 20 

Have you ever robbed a lioness of just one tiny whelp? 

Have you ever felt the power of her claws? 
Well, think of these, oh Pyrrhus, and before you cry 
for help, 

Remember what a woman is — and pause. 

The unfair sex, the one that is " more deadly than 
the male," 
Will never leave unturned a single stone, 
She'll fight, she'll bite, she'll scorn the rules; she'll 
make a strong man pale . . . 
So you'd better let Nearchus quite alone. 

And meanwhile this Nearchus, the sweet and blushing 
prize, 
Conducts himself as umpire of the fray; 
He shakes his scented locks; he smirks and rolls his 
pretty eyes — 
A tired semi-demi-god at play. 

Oh let her have her perfumed youth — as she is sure 
to do, 
Although she break a Senate-full of laws; 
Admit defeat. Retreat from them — the virgin or the 
shrew. 
Remember what a woman is — and pause. 
72 



QUESTIONING LYDIA 

Lydia, die, per omnis . . . Book I: Ode 8 

Lydia, why do you ruin by lavishing 
Smiles upon Sybaris, filling his eye 

Only with love, and the skilfully ravishing 
Lydia. Why? 

Ringing his voice was ; above all the clamorous 
Throng in the play-ground his own would be high. 

Now it is changed ; he is softened and amorous. 
Lydia, why? 

Once he was blithe and, as swift as a linnet, he 
Wrestled and swam, or on horse-back flew by. 

Now he is dulled with this cursed femininity — ■ 
Lydia, why? 

Yes, he is changed — he is moody and servile, he 
Skulks like a coward and wishes to fly. 

What, can you smile at his acting so scurvily, 
Lydia? . . . Why? 



73 



ETUDE ON THE SAME THEME 

Lydia, die, per omnis . . . Book I: Ode 8 

Lydia, I conjure you by all the gods above, 

Tell me why you care to try to ruin Sybaris? 
Why have you enraptured him and captured him with 
love? 
Why have you inspired him and tired him with a 
kiss? 

Tell me why he sits and sulks, and hates the sunny 
field? 
He was not one to shun the sun, inured to dusty 
plains. 
Why does he never ride beside his troop with spear 
and shield, 
Nor curb his steed of Gallic breed with barbed and 
bitted reins? 

Why does he dread the Tiber's stream, and hate the 
ringside oil? 
He will not play; he throws away the quoits and 
javelin. 
No longer flushed with triumph does he claim the vic- 
tor's spoil; 
He finds each game is much too tame ; he does not 
aim to win. 

74 



Etude on the Same Theme 75 

Oh why do martial exercises fail to bring him joy? 

And tell me why he languishes in anguish as they 

say 

Achilles did when he was hid before the fall of Troy ; 

When he appeared disguised and weird as though 

he feared the fray. 



THE PASSING OF LYDIA 

Parcius iunctas quatiunt fenestras . . . Book I: Ode 25 



No longer now do perfumed swains and merry wan- 
ton youths 
Come flocking, loudly knocking at your gate; 
No longer do they rob your rest, or mar the sleep 
that soothes, 
With calling, — bawling love-songs until late. 

No longer need you bar them out, nor is your win- 
dow-pane 
Ever shaken, now forsaken here you lie. 
Nevermore will lute strings woo you, nor your 
lover's voice complain, 
" Tis a sin, dear, let me in, dear, or I die ! " 



The little door that used to swing so gaily in and out, 

Creaks on hinges that show tinges of decay. 
For you are old, my Lydia, you are old and rather 
stout ; 
Not the sort to court or sport with those who play. 
76 



The Passing of Lydia 77 

Oh now you will bewail the daring insolence of 
rakes, 
While you dally in an alley with the crones; 
And the Thracian wind goes howling down the ave- 
nues and shakes 
Your old shutters, as it utters mocking moans. 



For youth will always call to youth and greet love 
with a will — 

And Winter, though you tint her like the Spring, 
Beneath the artificial glow she will be Winter still — 

And who would hold so cold and old a thing! 



REVENGE! 

Audivere, Lyce . . . Book IV: Ode 13 

The gods have heard me, Lyce, 
The gods have heard my prayer. 

Now you, who were so icy, 
Observe with cold despair 
Your thin and snowy hair. 

Your cheeks are lined and sunken; 

Your smiles have turned to leers; 
But still you sing, a drunken 

Appeal to Love, who hears 

With inattentive ears. 

Young Chia, with her fluty 

Caressing voice compels. 
Love lives upon her beauty; 

Her cheeks, in which He dwells, 

Are His fresh citadels. 

He saw the battered ruin, 
This old and twisted tree; 

He marked the scars, and flew in 
Haste that He might not see 
Your torn senility. 
78 



Revenge! 79 

No silks, no purple gauzes 

Can hide the lines that last. 
Time, with his iron laws, is 

Implacable and fast. 

You cannot cheat the past. 

Where now are all your subtle 

Disguises and your fair 
Smile like a gleaming shuttle? 

Your shining skin, your rare 

Beauty half-breathless — where? 

Only excelled by Cinara, 

Your loveliness ranked high. 
You even seemed the winner, a 

Victor as years went by, 

And she was first to die. 

But now — the young men lightly 

Laugh at your wrinkled brow. 
The torch that burned so brightly 

Is only ashes now ; 

A charred and blackened bough. 



BY WAY OF PERSUASION 
(with genuflections to f. p. a.) 

Est mihi nonutn superantis annum . . . Book IV: Ode n 

Here, Phyllis, I've a jar of Alban wine, 

Made of the choicest grapes that one can gather. 
Vintage? I'll say its years are more than nine. 
Inviting? . . . Rather. 

And that's not all our well-known festive cheer — 
There's ivy in the yard, and heaps of parsley. 
Come, twine some in your hair — and look, old dear, 
Don't do it sparsely. 

The flat's all ready for the sacrifice ; 
In every corner handy to display it, 
There's silver. Yes, the house looks extra nice, 
If I do say it. 

The flame has started trembling, and the smoke 
Goes whirling upward with an eager rustling; 
The household's overrun with busy folk. 
Just see them hustling! 

What's that? You want to know the cause of this? 
Why, it's the birthday of old friend Maecenas; 
And doubly dear because the season is 
Sacred to Venus. 
80 



The Way of Persuasion 81 

Some holiday? I'll tell the world that's right! 

And — well, my Latin heart and soul are in it 
Therefore I hope you'll be on hand to-night. 
Eh? . . . Just a minute. 

Telephus? Pah! He isn't worth a thought. 

If Telly dares neglect you, dear, why, let him! 
He's nothing but a giddy good-for-naught — 
Come and forget him. 

Come, and permit your grief to be assuaged; 
Forsake this flirt on whom you have your heart set. 
Besides, Dame Rumor hath it he's engaged — 
(" One of our smart set") 

From hopes that fly too high and reckless dreams, 

The doom of Phaeton's enough to scare you . . . 
.This is — ahem — my favorite of themes; 
But, dear, I spare you. 

Come then, so that the evening may not lack 

Your voice, that makes each heart a willing rover ; 
And, as we sing, black Care will grow less black — 
Oh, come on over. 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE 

Miser arum est . . . Book III: Ode 12 

Alas, poor little maids who droop and pine. 
Neither are you allowed to wear Love's crown 
Nor drown 
Your sorrow in sweet wine. 

For ah, one learns to dread the family tongue; 
The lashings of an uncle or an aunt, 
One can't 
Defy, however young. 

Yet — there's a certain robber steals away 
Your thoughts and busy needles ; yes, I find 
Your mind 
Is not cast down, but gay! 

Ah well, we're young, so I have heard, but once — 
And Hebrus is a more than lucky man ; 
He can 
Call himself blessed, the dunce. 

But wait — Hebrus can hunt ; his eye is true ; 

He rides and runs ; he plants a well-aimed blow. 
And so 
Perhaps you're lucky too! 



82 



" HE WHO LAUGHS LAST—" 

Nox erat et caelo . . . Epode 15 

It was the very noon of night, 

The stars were softly shining; 
And radiant in the amorous light, 

Your arms about me twining, 
You swore, " While tempests goad the seas, 
While wolf and sheep are enemies, 
I will be yours, though Hades freeze 

And Heaven starts declining." 

Oh fair but still more fickle love, 

Oh beautiful and blind one, 
You are a maid unworthy of 

A lover and a kind one. 
Think you that Horace will give place 
To him now wrapped in your embrace? 
Nay, he will seek a fairer face 

And, bless you, he will find one. 

And as for him, whoe'er he be, 

Who views my plight with laughter, 

So wealthy that his granary 
Is filled from pit to rafter, 

He in his turn, as I of old, 

Will watch your love grow strangely cold. 

And all of this I shall behold— 
And smile in silence after. 
83 



TO PYRRHA 

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa 

perfusus liquidis urget odoribus 

grato, Pyrrha, sub antrof Book I: Ode 5 

What dainty, perfume-scented youth, whenever he 
proposes, 
Caresses you, oh Pyrrha, in a pleasant grot and fair ; 
For whom do you reveal your charms among a thou- 
sand roses? 
For whom do you bedew your eyes and bind your 
shining hair? 

Alas, how soon shall he deplore your perfidy, when 
lonely 
He shall behold the altered gods, invisible to us, 
Who now believes you his alone and who enjoys you 
only, 
Who hopes (so credulous is he) things will be al- 
ways thus. 

Oh woe to those, the luckless ones, who cling to you, 
not knowing 
Your faithlessness and folly — and to whom you 
seem so fair. 
Lo, on the wall of Neptune's temple is a tablet showing 
My votive offering tendered to the Sea-God with a 
prayer. 

84 



THE FICKLE LYDIA 

Cum tu Lydia, Telephi 

cervicem roseam, cerea Telephi . . • Book I: Ode 13 

When you, my Lydia, praise the charms 

Of Telephus, and mark with pride 
His rosy neck and waxen arms, 

My bitterness I cannot hide. 

My color, like the restless tide, 
Rises in sudden wrath — and oh, 

The jealous tears of love denied 
My agonizing torments show. 

Nor can I see without a tear 

Your shoulders, scarred in Love's fierce play ; 
Nor look upon those lips for fear 

He, in his brutal passion, may 

Have marred the smile outshining day. 
Your heart he rudely set astir, 

And stole the best of life away 
From me, whose earth and sky you were. 

Oh leave him ; you will never find 
A lasting love in passion's rage. 
Love should be gentle, tender, kind; 
85 



86 The Fickle Lydia 

Love should give comfort, and assuage 
The storms and ravages of age. 

Such love is mine, that lives to be 
Written in glory on the page 

Whose words reflect eternity. 



A BURLESQUE RONDO 

Cum tu, Lydia, Telephi 

cervicem roseam, cerea Telephi . . . Book I: Ode 13 

Cum tu, Lydia . . . You know the rest — 
Praising the waxen arms and breast 

Of Telephus you drove me mad. 

You made the sunniest moments sad, 
While tortures racked my heaving chest. 

Oh, I could see you softly dressed, 
Inciting him with amorous zest; 

And hear you whisper low, " My lad, 
Come to Lydia." 

Now you repent . . . Your arms protest 
That they have been too roughly pressed. 
Oh gain your senses ; leave the cad, 
And heed me as again I add : 
Awake ! Love is no giddy jest. 
Come to ! Lydia ! 



87 



AN APPEAL 

(iN RICHARD LE GALLIENNE'S MOST LIMPID MANNER) 

Mater saeve Cupidinum , 

Thebanaeque iubet me Semelae fuer . . . Book I: Ode 19 

Mother of Cupids grown callous and cruel, 
Young Dionysus with Pleasure's bright train, 

Why do ye heap the faint flames with new fuel, 
Why are my pulses on fire again? 
Why this new joy and this exquisite pain? 

Glycera, she who in brightness surpasses 
Parian marble, whose lips have undone 

Me with their petulant laughter — what lass is 
Dazzling as she is, whose face is the sun! 
Aye, 'tis to her that my fantasies run. 

Now neither war nor its wild wonder fires me; 

I cannot sing of the Parthian in flight. 
Softly I chant, for when Venus inspires me, 

Love is the one theme in which I delight ; 

Love is the music for mid-day and night. 

Come, lads, and place on this turf as an altar, 
Vervains and vessels of two-year-old wine. 

Here shall I pray and with incense exalt her. 
Then, when the sacrifice glows on the shrine, 
She, being kinder, may come and be mine. 



ODE AGAINST ANGER 

O matre pulchra filia fulchrior 
quern criminosis cumque voles modum 
pones iambis. Book I: Ode 16 

So my random rhymes displeased you, 
Loveliest of ladies ; how 

Wroth you are— to be appeased you 
Crave for vengeance, and your brow 
Clouds with reddening anger now. 

Take the verses rude, erratic, 

(Which were never meant to pain) 

Drown them in the Adriatic; 

Burn them, strew them o'er the plain- 
Only do not frown again. 

Baleful anger, what can stay it? 

Neither flame nor sword nor sea. 
Jove himself can not dismay it; 

It is powerful as he 

In its potent tyranny. 

When Prometheus dared to fashion 
Man, by mingling worst and best 

Of each beast, he took the passion 
Of the raging lion and pressed 
Anger in the human breast. 
89 



90 Ode Against Anger 

Rage is herald to perdition; 
At its blast the city falls. 

Armies suffer demolition, 

While the foe, whom naught appals, 
Drives his plowshares through the walls. 

Clear your forehead. Anger frantic 
Works but ill, and fiercer than 

Storms and tumults Corybantic 
Is the savage wrath of man. 
Curb it, lady, when you can. 

I myself, when young, was given 
To the swift iambic verse 

And, with reckless ardor driven, 
I would often intersperse 
Satires with a careless curse. 

Now I turn to dull excuses — 

Come and be my friend once more. 

I recant my rhymed abuses, 
Hoping that you will restore 
Your affection ... as before. 



MUTINY 

lam veris comites . . . Book IV: Ode 12 

Spring's mild companion calms the seas, 
The wind blows up from Thrace ; 

The huddled hills that used to freeze 
Shake off the cold embrace. 

The seedling stirs ; the roots are squirming ; 

And every bird is early-worming. 

On soft young grass, the fattening sheep 

Are tended by musicians 
Who do their best to pipe and leap 

According to traditions, 
And chant their vernal panegyric 
As shepherds do in every lyric. 

" The year's at " — well, the thirsting time : 

The trees suck up their sap; 
The sun drinks on his lengthening climb; 

The wine of love's on tap. 
The earth's one sparkling ebullition . . . 
This is no place for prohibition! 
91 



92 Mutiny 

Come and forget the parching laws ; 

Away with dry excuses ! 
You shall espouse a heavenly Cause 

With more than earthly juices ! 
Their genial glow shall make it warmer 
For you — and any chance informer. 

Come, for these interdicted jars 

Will droop until you've kissed 'em; 

Come and behold more brilliant stars 
Than in the solar system. 

Fools keep to wisdom in these glum times ; 

The wiser man forgets it — sometimes. 



HOLIDAY 

Festo quid potius die . . . Book III: Ode 28 

What celebration should there be? . . . 

Quick, Lyde, bring a jar! 
Against a dull sobriety 

We'll wage a lusty war. 

The festive sun is setting low, 

The dusk is almost there; 
And yet you scarcely move, as though 

We both had time to spare! 

Let's pour the wine and sing in turns 

Of Neptune in his lair, 
Of mermaids in the water-ferns, 

And of their sea-green hair. 

And you, upon your curving lyre, 

Shall spend a tuneful hour, 
Singing Diana's darts of fire 

And her benignant power. 

Hymns shall arise to Her who sends 

Fresh laughter and delight, 
Until our weary singing ends 

In lullabies to night. 
93 



TO A FAUN 

Faune, Nympharum . . . Book III: Ode 18 

You sprightly mischief dancing by, 
As you pursue the nymphs that fly 

From your embraces, 
Run lightly through my garden plot, 
Respect the flower-beds that dot 
My favorite places; 
Avoiding please the early peas while going 
through your paces. 

Be gentle to the pigs and sows, 

The horses, chickens, ducks and cows; 

Pray, don't alarm them. 
And treat each tender, youngling kid 
With comradeship, as if you did 

Not want to harm them. 
They'll frisk and how their heads will bow if 
you should pass and charm them! 

For you there shall be sacrificed 

The herd's unblemished, highest-priced 

And best example. 
Incense shall cloud the festive shrine 
And there shall be great bowls of wine 
For you to sample — 
Providing all the while, of course, my grounds 
you do not trample. 
94 



To a Faun 95 

And now, to celebrate your day, 
Cattle romp and shepherds play 
For flocks to gambol. 
The world throws off its sordid shams 
And no one works while wolf and lambs 
Together amble. 
The village goes to tear its clothes on rustic 
bush and bramble. 

The town turns out, a giddy rout: 
Lodger, landlord, lover, lout, 
Prince and pastor. 
While laborers who dig or till, 
Dance with passion, leaping still 
Higher, faster. 
Striking the earth, their enemy, to show they 
are its master! 



AFTERMATH 

Intermissa, Venus . . . Book IV: Ode i 

Venus, I pray, do not flay me or tear me now ; 

Why should you rouse me to passion again ? 
I am too old to let Cupid ensnare me now ; 

See, there are hundreds of likelier men. 
Spare me, oh spare me now ! 

Venus, go otherwhere; pass on and pardon me; 

I am no longer the man that I was. 
Thoughts of poor Cynara rise like a guard on me, 

These and my fiftieth year make me pause — 
Do not be hard on me. 

Young Paulus Maximus, he is the man for you ; 

High-born and fair, with an eloquent turn. 
He is the sort who will do all he can for you ; 

Altars he'll raise to you, incense he'll burn; 
Fires he'll fan for you. 

Sweetly the smoke of his worship will rise to you, 

And, twice a day, nimble feet will advance — 
Maidens and boys, as a pleasant surprise to you, 
Beating the ground in the Salian dance, 
While the heart flies to you . . . 
96 



Aftermath 97 

Yes, I have altered. The sighs and alarms for me, 

Little indeed do I think of them now. 
Wine-cups and drinking-bouts — these have no 
charms for me ; 
I crave no flowers to bind on my brow, 
No, nor soft arms for me. 

But — what is this ! Can you tell, Ligurine dear, 
Why in my dreams do our hands interclasp? 

Or, like a hunter in chase of a shiny deer, 
Why do I seek you, who fly from my grasp ? 
And — why this briny tear? 



RAILING AT ICCIUS 

Icci, beatis nunc Arabum invides 
gazis . . . Book I: Ode 29 

Oh Iccius, now you would possess 
Arabian wealth and foreign treasures, 

And so you have prepared to press 

Decisive war against — no less 

Than those dread Saban kings ; confess 
These are impulsive measures. 
Now you are fashioning with speed 
Chains for the formidable Mede! 

What virgin, what barbarian fair, 

When you have slain her lord and lover, 
Will be your slave? With perfumed hair, 
What stripling from the court will bear 
The golden cups of wine ; and there, 
To keep you safely under cover, 
Will guard you well from every foe 
With arrows from his father's bow? 

Oh rivers now may run uphill, 

And Tiber's course become erratic, 
If for Iberian arms you will 
Exchange your philosophic skill, 



Railing at Iccius 99 

Panaetius' works, and those that fill 
Your library Socratic . . . 
Alas, your faithful friends, though few, 
Expected better things of you. 



PANTOUM OF PROCRASTINATION 

Mollis inertia . . . Epode 14 

Why this inertia, you ask, 
Sensing my mental disorder. 

Why don't I finish the task, 
Writing a poem to order ? 

Sensing my mental disorder, 

Seeing the way I put off 
Writing a poem to order, 

I do not wonder you scoff. 

Seeing the way I put off, 

(Laugh as you will, doubting Thomas) 
I do not wonder you scoff — 

Yet there's a reason, I promise. 

Laugh as you will, doubting Thomas, 
I will not ask you to pause. 

Yet — there's a reason, I promise — 
A god, and a small one's the cause. 

I will not ask you to pause 
Here in my comfortless hour; 

A god, and a small one's the cause — 
Yes, you yourself know his power. 
100 



Pantoum of Procrastination ioi 

Here, in my comfortless hour, 

Cupid plays tricks with my voice. 

Yes, you yourself know his power, 
Only — you've cause to rejoice. 

Cupid plays tricks with my voice; 

Jeers at the poem's beginning — 
Only you've cause to rejoice, 

Your love is faithful and winning. 

Jeers at the poem's beginning . . . 

" Why don't I finish the task? " 
Your love is faithful and winning. 

"Why this inertia?" . . . You ask! 



HORACE EXPLAINS 

Martiis caelebs . . . Book III: Ode 8 

Why, you ask, this festive raiment, why the bright 
regalia ? 
Why the smoking censer and the decorated urn? 
Why should I, a bachelor, observe the Matronalia? 
Ah, my friend Maecenas, you have something still 
to learn. 

Many years ago to-day, before I was your laureate, 
I lay beneath a branch and thought of nothing much 
at all ; 
To be precise, I think I scanned the latest Snappy 
Storiette, 
When suddenly the senseless tree made up its mind 
to fall. 

Pinned upon the rocky ground I spent a far from jolly 
day. 
" Help ! " I cried, at intervals from one o'clock to 
eight. 
There and then I swore to keep this date a sacred 
holiday 
If, I added tearfully, I live to celebrate. 
1 02 



Horace Explains 103 

So let's keep the oath I made with reverence and piety. 
Here's a cask of Caecuban to nurse me back to 
health. 
Let the city's counselors grow sodden with sobriety ; 
Here's a richer business and a greater common 
wealth. 

Come then, my Maecenas, bring the sunshine of your 
presence here. 
Toast your friend's recovery and wish him many 
more. 
Join me in a happy, not too rapid convalescence here. 
Carpe diem . . . But you've heard the rest of this 
before. 



AN INVITATION 

Velox amoenum saepe Lucretilem . . . Book I: Ode 17 

From Grecian pine and precipice 

The nimble Faunus often strays, 
And here, beside Lucretilis, 

He lingers for a space of days. 
Here he will keep 
My goats and sheep 
From chilling winds and Summer's blaze. 

For hidden strawberries and thyme 
The women seek in safety here; 
While sportive kids undaunted climb 
The mountain-side without a fear 
Of wolves or snakes, 
When Faunus makes 
Sweet music to delight the ear. 

Aye, all the gods are good to me, 

And shielded by their gifts I dwell; 
They love me for my piety, 

And all my songs have pleased them well. 
Sweet is my rest 
For I am blest 
With bounties more than I can tell. 
104 



An Invitation IOJJ 

Come hither. In this cool retreat 

You too shall share this treasure trove. 
Here shall you flee the dog-star's heat; 
Here shall you learn how, torn with love, 
Penelope 
In rivalry 
With Circe for a lover strove. 

Here shall you drink from Grecian jars 

Mild Lesbian wine, still sweet and warm, 
Nor fear that Bacchus clash with Mars, 
Nor savage Cyrus do you harm. 
So come, my friend, 
With me and spend 
Some days upon the Sabine farm. 



WINTER PIECE 

Fides ut alta stet nive candidum 
Soracte . . . Book I: Ode 9 

Shrouded with ice and snow 
Soracte stands in splendor. 
The rivers freeze; the slender 

Branches are weighted low. 

Oh Thaliarchus mine, 
Come, set the fagots flaming 
And then, with rapt acclaiming, 

Bring in the Sabine wine. 

The rest leave to the gods 
Who rule the warring thunders, 
Whose hands shape Life's deep wonders 

And Death's more puzzling odds. 

We only live to-day; 
Youth knows no dull to-morrow. 
We who have buried Sorrow 

May dance when we are gray. 

Look, — now the maidens seek 
Dim walks, and breathe soft whispers 
To scented youths, and this spurs 

The love that fears to speak. 
106 



Winter Piece 107 



Coy smiles and feigned alarms 
The maiden, half-resisting, 
Yields of a sudden, twisting 

The token from her arms. 

One hears a plaintive tune; 
A snatch of distant laughter . . 
Vague murmurs pass, and after 

Is silence — and the moon. 



INVOCATION 

Dianam tenerae dicite <virgines . . . Book I: Ode 21 

Maidens young and virgins tender, 
Sing Diana in her splendor ; 
Boys at play within the hollow, 
Sing the flowing-haired Apollo. 

(Ye that, moved by love and duty, 
Praise Diana's holy beauty, 
Shall be granted joys unceasing 
And, perhaps, a mate that's pleasing.) 

(And if winning words we hit on, 
Phoebus may present the Briton, 
Persian, Parthian and the rest, with 
All the wars and plagues we're blessed with.) 



108 



THE PINE TREE FOR DIANA 

Montium custos . . . Book III: Ode 22 

Oh virgin queen of mountain-side and woodland, 
Blessed protector of young wives in travail, 
Who snatchest them from death if thrice they call 
thee — 

Goddess and guardian; 

To thee I dedicate this slender pine-tree; 
And each year with a boar's blood I shall bless it — 
A youngling boar just dreaming of his first thrust, 
Savage and sidelong. 



109 



A PLEASANT VOYAGE FOR MAEVIUS 

Mala soluta . . . Epode 10 

Under an evil star she slips, 

Accompanied by my hate; 
She reels, unluckiest of ships, 

With him, her stinking freight. 

Do not forget, O southwest wind, 
To lash her sides with waves, 

Till Maevius sees, before, behind, 
Nothing but yawning graves. 

Litter the sea, till on it lie 
These oars and tattered ropes ; 

And make the breakers tower as high 
As mountains on his hopes. 

Let not one friendly star appear, 

Let even days be dark; 
So that he'll fare as calm and clear 

— As Ajax' impious bark! 
no 



A Pleasant Voyage for Maevius in 

Ah, how the mariners will sweat! 

How Maevius will pale ! 
As weeping, woman-like and wet, 

He prays to stop the gale. 



I too shall pray! And if a rock 
Receive his mangled form, 

The choicest ewe-lamb of the flock 
I'll offer to the storm. 



SIMPLICITY 

Persicos odi, puer . . . Book I: Ode 38 

The diversions of the Persians with their ostentatious 
ways 

Do not thrill me, for they fill me with disdain; 
I abominate the dominating style of coarse displays, 

And from garlands brought from far lands I refrain. 

But the myrtle plain and fertile you may bind around 
your brow, 
And in future let it suit your taste like mine. 
Come, my fervent little servant, you may place it on 
me now, 
As with wine here I recline here near the vine. 



112 



VICTORIAN SIMPLICITY 

(A LA ANDREW LANG) 

I do not love this pomp and pride 
Extolled by Persians magnified 

With self-esteem ; and to my taste 

The linden chaplets interlaced 
With roses should be cast aside. 

Seek not the place where these abide; 
Those perfumed robes and wreaths applied 
With brilliant gauds and gems misplaced, 
I do not love. 

But bring the jars; beneath the wide, 
Green mantle of these boughs I'll hide. 
Come, bind my brow with myrtle chaste 
And bring — oh, anything — but haste! 
For there's no wine I ever tried 
I do not love. 



113 



NEAPOLITAN SIMPLICITY 

(T. A. DALY PUTS IT IN HIS FAVORITE DIALECT) 

My frand, I am seeck, an' I talla you w'at, 
Dees grandness, eet maka me — w'at you call — hot! 
See, roses an' ribbons all ovra da place; 
I tal you, my frand, eet ees bigga deesgrace. 

Oh my ! soocha f ooleeshness geeve me a pain. 
Com' back to Italia's sweetness again! 
An' Rosa, weeth myrtle-leaves steeck 'een her hair, 
Gon' breeng da Chianti for dreenk weeth us dere. 



114 



SEDITIOUS SONG AGAINST PROHIBITION 
(with an interpolated and wholly ad lib. chorus) 

O nata mecum . . . Book III: Ode 21 

I 

When Manlius was consul, when you and I wore 
young, 
This ancient wine was born of precious juices; 
Of Caecuban and Massic grapes, of various and classic 
grapes, 
'Twas made for happy days and noble uses. 

chorus 
So zvine, wine, wine till the planets reel and fall; 
Yellozv wine and mellow wine or any wine at all. 
The happy earth has put her mirth and courage in the 

vine; 
And Love and Laughter follow after wine. 

11 
So highly do we prize it that no man dare despise it, 

Though cynical he may be or Socratic. 
They say that even Cato old declared it ne'er too late 
to hold 
A cup of wine to make the heart ecstatic. 

chorus 
So wine, wine, wine, etc. 
"5 



n6 Seditious Song Against Prohibition 

in 

For wine's divine emulsion creates a sweet compulsion, 
It lifts the weak above complaint or pity; 

It makes him raise his horn again and Hope and 
Strength are born again — 
It turns the witty wise, the wise man witty ! 

CHORUS 

So wine, wine, wine, etc. 

IV 

It rids the soul of languor, of sorrow, fear and anger; 

While Bacchus joins the feast to make it splendid. 
And Venus and the Graces hear our songs and take 
their places here, 

With night-long lamps until the revel's ended. 

CHORUS 

So wine, wine, wine till the planets reel and fall; 
Yellow wine and mellow wine or any zvine at all. 
The happy earth has put her mirth and courage in 

the wine; 
And Love and Laughter follow after wine! 



HORACE, TEMPERANCE ADVOCATE 



Nullam, Vare, sacra <vite prius sevens arborem . . . 

Book I: Ode li 



When you start your planting, Varus, 
Let your first thought be the vine ; 

Knowing how its powers spare us 
When our cares and doubts combine, 

Knowing how the fears that snare us 
Vanish with the use of wine. 

Wine is cheering and sustaining; 

Thoughts of harm and dreams of war 
In the cups that we are draining 

Fade away and, as we pour 
Wine anew, our cares are waning— 

Poverty is felt no more. 

Yet with all your deep potations, 
Check the overpowering thirst ; 

Do not quaff with wild impatience- 
Moderate your passion first. 

Bear in mind the brutal Thracians, 
Even by great Pan accursed. 
117 



Ii8 Horace, Temperance Advocate 

When their passions have been fired, 
Armed with wine and roused with song, 

They will fight as if inspired 
With mad fury, and ere long 

Gain the thing that they desired, 
Caring naught for right or wrong. 

Never will I rouse thee, Bacchus, 
'Gainst thy will as in the past. 

Cease thy cymbals, then, that rack us; 
Hush thy trumpets' brazen blast, 

For they make false Pride attack us 
And the Faith that does not last. 



TRITE TRIOLETS 

Tu ne quaesieris . . . Book I: Ode n 

Ask not — what does it matter — 

How long we're going to live; 
The fortune-teller's patter 
Ask not. What does it matter 
If Jove has years to scatter 

Or only one to give? . . . 
Ask not. What does it matter 
How long we're going to live ! 

Oh friend, trust no to-morrow, 
But seize the flying present. 

Would you escape all sorrow, 

Oh friend? Trust no to-morrow! 

Drink deep, and do not borrow 
One thought that isn't pleasant. 

Oh friend, trust no to-morrow, 
But seize the flying present. 



119 



ON PRIDE, POSITION, POWER, ETC. 

Nullus argento color est . . . Book II: Ode 2 

Silver hidden in the mine 

Does not shine. 

Though no soul on earth refuse it, 

Gold grows either bright or sordid 
By the way a man may use it; 

It grows dull when hoarded. 
All the coins a miser owns 
Might as well be stones. 

He rules with power over pelf 

Who rules himself. 

Libyan shores and Carthaginian, 

Realms whose length may well dismay us, 
Who conquers Greed has such dominion — 

Look at Proculeius. 
All the years the gods may give, 
Deeds like his outlive. 

What's a title, what's a crown? 
Virtue laughs them down. 
And to him alone she offers 

Wreaths and things that grow no older 

120 



On Pride, Position, Power, Etc. 121 

Who can gaze on golden coffers, 
Gaze — and shrug his shoulder. 
The happy man wants no one's throne — 
He has his own! 



THE GOLDEN MEAN 

Rectius vives . . . Book II: Ode 10 

Licinius, here's a recipe 

To keep you from undue commotion, 
Remember that the shore can be 

As treacherous as the depths of ocean : 

The man who loves the golden mean, 

Avoids the squalor of a hovel; 
And scorns the palaces, serene 

Above the envious ones who grovel. 

It is the giant pine that creaks, 
It is the tallest towers that tumble; 

And it is on the mountain peaks 

That lightnings strike and heavens crumble. 

The heart forearmed, when times are drear, 
Hopes for the best, and in fair weather 

Allows itself an hour of fear — 
It takes the good and bad together. 

Be patient then, and reef your sails ; 

Equip your courage with endurance. 
Thus shall you meet the roaring gales 

With laughing wisdom and assurance. 

122 



CIVIL WAR 

Quo, quo scelesti ruitisf . . . Epode 7 

Why do ye rush, oh wicked folk, 

To a fresh war? 
Again the cries, the sword, the smoke- 

What for? 



Has not sufficient precious blood 
Been fiercely shed? 

Must ye spill more until ye flood 
The dead? 



Not even armed in rivalry 

Your hate's employed ; 

But 'gainst yourselves until ye be 
Destroyed ! 



Even when beasts slay beasts, they kill 

Some other kind. 
Can it be madness makes ye still 

So blind? 

123 



124 Civil War 

Make answer! Is your conscience numb? 

Each ashy face 
Admits, with silent lips, the dumb 

Disgrace. 



Murder of brothers ! Of all crime, 

Vilest and worst! 
Pause — lest ye be, through all of time, 

Accursed. 



LUGUBRIOUS VILLANELLE OF PLATITUDES 

Eheu fugaces, Postume . . . Book II: Ode 14 

Ah Postumus, my Postumus, the years are slipping by ; 
Old age with hurrying footsteps draws nearer day 
by day; 

And we will leave this friendly earth and every friend- 
lier tie. 

Soon Death, whose strength is never spent, whose 

sword is always high, 
Will beckon us, and all our faith will win us no 

delay. 
Ah Postumus, my Postumus, the years are slipping by. 

Grim Pluto waits for all of us; he waits with pitiless 
eye, 
Until we journey down the stream that carries us 
away; 

And we will leave this friendly earth and every friend- 
lier tie. 

Though we be kings or worse than slaves, the eager 
moments fly; 
Though we be purer than the gods, Time will not 
halt or stay — 
Ah Postumus, my Postumus, the years are slipping by. 

"5 



126 Lugubrious Villanelle of Platitudes 

Aye, we must go, though we have shunned the red sun 
of July, 
The bitter winds, the treacherous surf, the blind and 
savage fray, 

And we will leave this friendly earth and every friend- 
lier tie. 

Too soon the stubborn hand of Fate tears all our 
dreams awry; 
Too soon the plowman quits his plow, the child 
his happy play — 
Ah Postumus, my Postumus, the years are slipping by, 
And we will leave this friendly earth and every friend- 
lier tie. 



AN INFAMOUS RENDERING 

(The Parentheses and Italics being the Translator's) 
O fons Bandusiae . . . Book III: Ode 13 

Bandusian Spring, I've known thee long (in various 

translations) 
And now at last I sing of thee; (with anything but 

patience) 
Worthy of wine and flowers, (like a hackneyed 

"Hymn to Victory") 
Brilliant as glass. (A metaphor both trite and con- 
tradictory.) 

To-morrow shall a kid be thine, (a spring with 

butchered goats on it!) 
His blood shall dye thy crystal stream ; (and Horace 

simply gloats on it.) 
On thee the dog-star's hour of rage (that part was 

never clear to me) 
Shall lay no hand. (In fact this ode, though famed, 

is far from dear to me.) 

Thou givest freely of thy wealth (a feeling I don't 

share at all) 
To all who seek thy cooling side; (yet, somehow, 

I don't care at all) 
127 



128 An Infamous Rendering 

The bull that's wearied of the plow, ("and I, for 

one, don't blame him";) 
The sheep that's strayed. (And, entre nous, the fox 

that's sure to claim him.) 

Thou too shalt rank with famous founts, (you note 

how Horace hates himself) 
For I shall be thy laureate; (thus modestly he rates 

himself;) 
I will immortalize thy rocks, (and now the light 

that glowed is dun) 

Thy babbling streams. (And, thank the Lord, the 

babbling with this Ode is done!) 



PROLOG IN THE APPROVED MANNER 

(to Maecenas) 
Maecenas atavis edite regibus . . . Book I: Ode i 

Lordly descendant of a royal line, 
Whose love and honored patronage is mine, 
Know you not how the varied types of men 
Struggle, each with his own desires, and then 
Count themselves kings — yes, gods are not more 

blessed — 
If by some trick of fate they pass the rest. 

This man exults if fortune sweep him high 
Where he may swagger in the public eye; 
Another hopes to magnify his stores 
With grain swept from the Libyan threshing- 
floors. 
He who delights to till his fertile fields 
Is most concerned with what the farming yields 
And would not change for things more hazardous, 
Though tempted with the wealth of Attalus. 
The merchant, dreading winds and angry seas, 
Commends tranquillity and rural ease; 
Another one (you may have heard of such) 
Is not averse to Massic, and will touch 
129 



130 Prolog in the Approved Manner 

The lips of jars that hold it while he may; 
Draining and dreaming through the longest day. 
One quaffs it lying by some sacred stream, 
Another stretched on roses loved to dream. . . . 

The camp, the sound of trumpets as they blend 
With clarions and cries, with wars that rend 
A thousand mothers' hearts with fresh despair, 
Are things for which a nation seems to care. 
The huntsman, deaf to his neglected spouse, 
Creeps in the cold and shuns his own warm house, 
Whether by dogs a hart is held to view, 
Or some wild Marsian boar has broken through 
The fine-wrought net which he has torn askew. 

For me the ivy, emblem that I love, 

Ranks me an equal with the gods above. 

For me the placid groves and cool retreats 

Where never throngs disturb the woodland streets, 

But where the Nymphs and Satyrs dancing light 

Add a new glory to the splendid night. 

These will I sing until my battered lute 

Is still and Polyhymnia's lyre is mute. 

Thus will I seek for favor in your eyes, 

And if with lyric bards you say I rise 

My head shall grow until it scrapes the skies. 



SPRING SUMMONS 

Solvitur acris hiems grata vice veris . . . Book I: Ode 4 

When breezes kiss the lips of Spring, 

And ships again at anchor ride, 
The plowman leaves his hearth to sing 
And wander through the countryside, 
Where daisies glow 
Like drifts of snow, 
And fields below are white and wide. 

At night the playful moonbeams dance 

With Venus and her rosy train; 

The kiss of flute and lyre enchants 

The Nymphs upon each mossy plain, 

Whose feet repeat 

The rhythmic beat 

And help complete the magic strain. 

Come then, this is the joyous time, 

The time beloved by god and man ; 
Awake, this is the glad year's prime; 
Awake and, in the name of Pan, 
Anoint with wine 
The sacred shrine 
Where wreaths entwine the gift we plan. 
131 



132 Spring Summons 

Live well to-day. Time will not wait, 
Nor Death the slightest favor show 
At hovel or the castle-gate. 

And when thine hour striketh — lo, 
The light shall pass . . . 
No more the glass 
Nor lad nor lass for thee shall glow. 



THE MODEST HOST 

Vile potabis modicis Sabinum 
cantharis . . . Book I: Ode 20 

These cups of mine are neither large nor rare, 
My joys are simple ; humble, too, my fare. 
That day the theater hailed thee with a sign 
Of wildest welcome, this poor Sabine wine, 
In Grecian casks, I did myself prepare. 

Yet though, my patron knight, thou mayest with prayer 
Extol the seasoned Caecuban and swear 
To touch no poorer wine ; do not decline 
These cups of mine. 

And though my cellar-shelves are always bare 
Of sweet Falernian, and the vessels there 

Contain weak juices that may seem like brine 
When tasted after vintages like thine — 
Come, dear Maecenas ; come, and dare to share 
These cups of mine. 



133 



THE WARRIOR RETURNS 

Et ture et fidibus iwvat 
placare . . . Book I: Ode 36 

Now see the sacrifice leap up to heaven, 

Greeting the gods as their vision is thrilled ; 
Hear what new songs to the lyre are given, 

While the warm blood of a heifer is spilled. 
Even the dumb things their gladness are voicing; 

For from the ultimate limits of Spain 
Numida comes to the sounds of rejoicing, 

Comes to his home and his comrades again 

Come then, bring the jars 

Full of bubbling glories ; 
Let us shake the stars 

With our songs and stories. 
Pour the laughing wine 

Borne by this Liburnian; 
Mix with Surrentine, 

Massic and Falernian. 

Let the jocund dance 

Cease not till the morning, 

And let wreaths enhance 
Nature's own adorning. 
134 



The Warrior Returns 135 

Where the parsley shows, 

Strew the daffodilly ; 
Lavishing the rose 

And the short-lived lily. 

Feast your swimming eyes 

On this floral palace 
And its fairest prize, 

The divine Damalis. 
Lo, how soft she sings 

In this leafy cover, 
And like ivy clings 

To her latest lover . . . 

Now see the sacrifice leap up to heaven, 

Greeting the gods as their vision is thrilled; 
Hear tvhat new songs to the lyre are given 

While the warm blood of a heifer is spilled. 
Even the dumb things their gladness are voicing; 

For from the ultimate limits of Spain 
Numida comes to the sounds of rejoicing, 

Comes to his home and his comrades again! 



THE TOAST 

Natis in usum laetitiae scyphis 

pugnare Thracem est . . . Book I: Ode 27 

To brawl and quarrel over wine 
And, drugged with dissipation, 
To strike in anger, and decline 
The toast is rude, is base, — in fine, 
It's downright Thracian. 

Let songs uncurl the scornful lip ; 

Let verses, light or classic, 
Regale the board ; let dancers trip . . . 
Here, try these peacock's tongues, and sip 
This rare old Massic. 

Come, toast the one that rules your heart; 

A truce to idle lying. 
Blessed are the wounds that ache and smart 
When some fair Chloe speeds the dart 
Of which you're dying. 

Who needs excuse his love or make 

Apologies for passion ? 
The heavy bonds that none can break 
I weave in pleasing chains ; so take 
Yours in this fashion. 
136 



The Toast 137 

Come then, her name. What! Is it she? . . . 

Alas, my lad, I fear a 
Fate will be yours none dare foresee. 
What god can save you, set you free 
From this chimera! 



CLEOPATRA'S DEATH 

Nunc est vibendum . . . Book I: Ode 37 

Now let us drink and tread the earth 

With dancing mirth. 
Now, comrades, let us open up 

The rare wine stored away so long, 
And raise, with many a glowing cup, 

A thankful and victorious song. 

A short time since all men had seen 

The Ethiop Queen 
Plotting to rule on land and sea; 

Sending fresh ships on every wave, 
To flood fair Rome with savagery 

And turn the Empire to a grave. 

But soon her madness was dispelled. 

Her hopes were quelled 
When all her ships went up in flame 
And Caesar, giving swift pursuit, 
Brought back her reason as she came 
Nearer the shores she left to loot. 
138 



Cleopatra's Death 139 

Hot as the hunter out to stalk 

The hare ; or hawk 
After a pigeon, Caesar swept 

To make his triumph greater still. 
But, scorning chains, she never wept 

Or shrank from her majestic will. 

She smiled at death and dared to grasp 

The deadly asp. 
Ruined and lost, she never mourned; 

She let the poison have its way. 
Unqueened, she kept her throne, and scorned 

To make a Roman holiday. 



THE GHOST OF ARCHYTAS 
(in professor conington's strictest manner) 

Tg maris et terrae numeroque carentis arenae . . . 

Book I: Ode 28 

A SAILOR SPEAKS: 

Oh you who circled every sea 

Who knew each mile of foreign strand, 
Oh, Archytas, and can it be 

That for the lack of grains of sand, 

Your soul from Heaven's realm is banned 
To haunt the shore eternally. 

Aye, though in life your spirit flew 
In fancy over earth and sky, 

What good was it, since even you 
Were doomed to die. 

And thus did Pelops' father lie — 

He who was Heaven's favored guest; 
And thus Tithonus faced the sky 
Although Aurora loved him best; 
And Minos, though he was possessed 
Of Jove's own secrets, lived to die. 
Aye, in some bleak Tartarean hole, 

The son of Panthous is confined — 
Of what avail his warlike soul, 
His noble mind? 
140 



The Ghost of Archytas 141 

The selfsame night awaits us all; 

The road of Death all mortals tread. 
On fields of carnage many fall, 

The sport and toy of Mars, the dread; 

Others in ocean caves lie dead. 
For, in a mingled funeral, 

The young and old together lie ; 

No mortal cheats the fates — not one ; 

Proserpine's all-watchful eye 
Is blind to none. 



THE SHADE REPLIES! 

The South wind, warm Orion's mate, 

Has sunk me 'neath th'Illyrian wave, 
And here in this unhallowed state 

I seek the comfort of a grave. 

Oh scatter sand on me and save 
My spirit ere it be too late. 

So shall your soul be comforted 

And ne'er a wind shall do you harm, 

But blessings be upon your head 
While you lie warm. 

So shall you profit by the winds 

And reap what fortunes you may please; 
For he who has Jove's favor finds 

The love of Neptune on the seas. 

But do not flout these obsequies 



142 The Ghost of Archytas 

Or you will blast your children's minds ; 
For such a grave iniquity 

No expiation can atone . . . 
So sprinkle sand thrice over me — 
And then begone. 



TO THE (ROMAN) SHIP OF STATE 

O navis, referent in mare te novi 

fluctusf O quid agis? . . . Book I: Ode 14 

Proud Ship, the waves and winds conspire 

To drag you back to sea. 
O, gain the port that we desire; 

Ride swiftly, lest you be 

A hopeless wreck ; for even now 

Devoid of oars you sail, 
Your mast is bent and weak (a blow 

Dealt by a foreign gale) . 

And see the signs that from each spar 

A dire destruction spell: 
Your sails in tattered ribbons are 

That catch the breezes' swell. 

Your keel shows lines of swift decay; 

Your cables all are bare ; 
No gods are left to whom you may 

Turn with a frenzied prayer. 

Of Pontic pine, you boast, you came, 

Reared in a noble wood ; 
Think you that this will ever tame 

The tempest's angry mood? 

141 



144 To the (Roman) Ship of State 

'Tis little courage sailors find 
In neatly-painted boats. 

Beware then, lest the howling wind 
Hurls back the boastful notes. 

Oh, You who are my grief and care, 
Turn back to calmer seas. 

Beware, oh precious Ship, beware 
The shining Cyclades. 



TO MERCURY 

Mercuri, facunde nepos Atlantis . . . Book I: Ode 10 

Bright grandson of old Atlas, thrice-eloquent of 
tongue, 
Who raised the early races by the graces of your art, 
With oratory noble and the splendid gift of song, 
Who wrought a thousand wonders and reformed 
the savage heart, 

I sing of you, light messenger of Jove and all the 
gods — 
The parent of the lyre and the higher lord of theft ; 
Who smiles on his disciples, and in spite of all the 
odds, 
Who seizes what he pleases and then smiles when 
nothing's left. 

Once when you were a little boy, Apollo in a rage, 
(His oxen having vanished as though banished 
from the sun) 
Knowing your mischiefs, threatened you, not thinking 
of your age, 
Then of a sudden stopped and laughed — his quiver 
too had gone! 

M5 



146 To Mercury 

And it was you whose guidance and whose mighty 
power led 
The wealthy Priam when he left the many walls of 
Troy; 
Deceived the sons of Atreus and saved his hoary head 
By stealing through the camp which Trojans never 
could destroy. 

You are companion to the soul, conductor of the dead ; 

The evil spirits cower at the power of your rod ; 
The airy throngs to soft abodes eternally are led 

By you, who are the favorite of each and every god. 



TO VIRGIL 

Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus 
tarn cari capitis f . . . Book I: Ode 24 



O weep and wail — there is no shame in weeping. 

What bounds can measure grief for one so dear? 
Melpomene, arise, thy wild harp sweeping 

And teach me songs of sadness and the bier. 

And does Quintilius sleep eternal slumbers? 

O Justice, pious Modesty, and Fear — 
Intrepid Truth, though Life has valiant numbers, 

When shall ye ever hope to find his peer? 

Aye, though he died, amid a throng lamentous, 
By none, my Virgil, better wept than you, 

In vain you ask him back; he was not lent us 
On any terms but what the gods endue. 

Aye, though you strike the lyre with wilder sobbing 
And sweeter sighs than Orpheus of Thrace, 

You cannot set one drop of life-blood throbbing 

Or bring one blush to that poor, pallid face. 

147 



148 To Virgil 

For Mercury, impervious to stations, 

Cannot reverse the fates that placed him there ; 

And though the blow is deep, 'twill heal with 
patience. 
For what we cannot change we learn to bear. 



TO VENUS 

O Venus, regina Cnidi Paphique . . . Book I: Ode 30 

Come Venus, Cnidian-Paphian queen, 

Leave Cyprus for a while, 
And haste where Glycera may be seen 
Invoking thee with incense, e'en 
To win thy smile. 

Bring Cupid and the Graces three 

To fan thy fires, 
Ungirdled Nymphs, and Mercury — 
And buoyant Youth that, without thee, 
No maid desires. 



149 



TO HIS LYRE 



Poscimur. Si quid vacui sub umbra 
lusimus tecum . . . Book I: Ode 32 



Now we are called upon. O lyre, 

If ever we in secret here 
Have sung one strain that men admire 

And may outlive the passing year, 
I pray thee tune the throbbing wire 

From which my dearest songs have flowed, 
And let me build for my desire 
A Latin ode. 



A Lesbian poet showed us first 

Thy passion and thy fluent power; 
And in the battle's lust and thirst, 

Or quiet of the calmer hour, 
He swept the silent strings ; he versed 

The lovely Venus in her pride ; 
Or showed us Cupid being nursed 
Close at her side. 
150 



To His Lyre 15 1 

He chanted Bacchus wondrously; 

And, when the Muses' praise was sung, 
Extolled the black-eyed Lycus, he 

Who was so delicate and young . . . 
O thou who art and e'er wilt be 

The charm and the delight of all, 
Come and be gracious unto me — 
Answer the call. 



TO APOLLO 

Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem 
<vates? . . . Book I: Ode 31 

Lord of all the lyrists, hear the poet's supplication. 

See, before the temple that is hallowed in thy sight, 
From the flowing flagon I will pour the first libation ; 

Phoebus, Lord Apollo, hear my fervid prayer aright. 

Grant me neither goodly crops from fertile, far 
Sardinia, 
Nor the wealth of countless herds from scorched 
Calabrian strands, 
Ivory from Indian caskets, gold from Carthaginia, 
Nor the towns where silently the Liris lips the 
sands. 

Let the favored nobles who to Fortune are beholden 
For their purple vineyards prune them with a 
crooked knife; 
Let the wealthy merchants drink from goblets carved 
and golden; 
Grant me but the boon of living; let me know the 
strength of life. 

152 



To Apollo 153 

Let me walk unto the end, erect, with brow unclouded ; 

Let my years be sonant with the sweeping of the 

lyre. 

And, when I am less than dust and all the urns are 

shrouded, 

May the singing echo even when the songs expire. 



A COMPLACENT RONDEAU REDOUBLE 

Musis amicus tristitiam et metus 

tradam frotervis in mare ...» Book I : Ode 26 

The Muses love me, and I am content, 
For naught to me is either grief or fear; 

The winds will sweep them into banishment, 
The sea will drag them to a briny bier. 

Let others quail and, trembling, force the tear, 
And cringe, with looks that on the ground are 
bent; 

Let all the angry powers of earth appear, 
The Muses love me — and I am content. 

What though the days of joy are only lent, 
What though the skies are overcast and drear ; 

I care not if the thundering heavens be rent, 
For naught to me is either grief or fear. 

Come then, bright-hearted nymph from brooklets 
clear, 
A garland for my Lamia weave ; nor vent 
Thy proud disdain upon my verses here — 
The winds will sweep them into banishment. 
iS4 



A Complacent Rondeau Redouble 155 

O, come with perfumed words from Venus sent 
And twine a golden couplet for our cheer. 

(Mind not the cares that mar our merriment; 
The sea will drag them to a briny bier). 

Attune my strings and so, for many a year, 

Singing of thee I will be diligent; 
And even when the leaves of life are sere, 

One thought will cheer me when all else is spent : 
The Muses love me. 



HALF IN EARNEST 

Exegi monumentum aere -perennius . . . Book III: Ode 30 

My work is done, a monument sublime, 
A thing outliving brass ; 
One that the pyramids cannot surpass, 
Untouched by the corroding rains of Time. 

The flight of ages, the parade of years, 
Will gently pass me by; 
For, buried though I be, I cannot die — 
I shall escape the death-bed's final fears. 

Fresh with each generation's lavish praise 
My work and I shall grow, 
Until at last the world of men will know 
The living magic of these deathless lays. 

Until at last they recognize in me 
One of the first to give 
Soul to the lyric, stuff to make it live . . . 
So come and crown me, O Melpomene. 



156 



" I CELEBRATE MYSELF " 

Non usitata nee tenui ferar . . . Book II: Ode 20 

Before I end this glorious batch 

Of deathless verses, friend Maecenas, 

I've something still to add, to snatch 
One laurel more to share between us. 

(I mention all of this to no man 

Except perhaps a friend— or Roman.) 

Now that my time has come to die 
(Within a score or two of years) 

I wish to have it known that I 

Will gladly leave this vale of tears, 

Because (and how my friends will chortle!) 

I shall be more than just immortal. 

Into the clear and boundless air 

I shall ascend with sounding pinions, 

Shouting a buoyant " I-don't-care," 

Laughing at kings and their dominions. 

And folks will say (and well you know it) 

Q. Flaccus? Ah, he was a poet! 
157 



158 "1 Celebrate Myself" 

My wings shall sprout. Why, even now 
I feel all creepy and absurdlike ; 

My skin is roughening somehow, 
My legs are positively birdlike. 

And see — sure as I'm growing older — 

Feathers and quills on either shoulder! 

Thus shall I fly about as long 
As I've the slightest inclination, 

A veritable Bird-of-Song 
Without a local habitation. 

Like Icarus I'll travel surely 

And (need I say it?) more securely. 

From where the Dacian hides in shame 
To where the river Rhone runs muddy, 

All men will celebrate my name, 
My works will constitute a Study. 

I shall be loved by people pat in 

The ways of elementary Latin. 

Then let there be no dirge for me, 
No petty grief nor lamentation; 

Why weep for one who's sure to be 
A joy and honor to creation ! 

Ah, you're a lucky man, by Venus, 

To have a friend like me, Maecenas, 



INDEX OF THE ODES 



BOOK ODE PAGE 

I i 129 

4 x 3* 

5 84 

6 68 

8 73. 74 

9 106 

10 145 

11 9, 119 

13 85, 87 

14 x 43 

16 89 

17 104 

18 117 

19 88 

20 133 

21 108 

22 3-45 

23 70, 71 

24 147 

25 76 

26 154 

27 136 

28 140 

29 98 

30 149 

31 J 52 

32 150 

33 6o, 62 

36 *34 

37 x 38 

38 112-114 



BOOK ODE PAGE 

II 2 I20 

4 54 

8 64 

10 122 

" 49 

14 125 

20 157 

HI 7 50 

8 102 

9 56 

10 66 

12 82 

13 127 

15 52, 53 

18 94 

20 72 

21 115 

22 109 

26 58 

28 93 

30 156 

IV 1 96 

11 80 

12 91 

13 78 

Epode 7 123 

10 no 

14 100 

15 83 



